•-3 


WHERE   YOUR   TREASURE   IS— 


BNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


BY  JOHN  HASTINGS  TURNER 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 
A  PLACE  IN  THE  WORLD 
SIMPLE  SOULS 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


WHERE 
YOUR  TREASURE  IS 


"  True  happiness  lies  in  a  very  few  things  .  .  ." 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1922 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Published  May,  1922 


WHERE   YOUR   TREASURE   IS— 


2133173 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 
CHAPTER  I. 

The  sea  front  at  Whyticombe  is  just  like  any 
other  sea  front.  At  high  noon  the  asphalt,  as  if 
from  sheer  softness  of  heart,  admits  the  indent  of 
hundreds  of  holiday  shoes.  In  the  evening,  these 
little  human  pits  become  hard  impressions,  as  if 
desirous  from  sheer  kindness  of  recording  for  all 
time  the  signet  of  the  holiday  makers,  who  patronise 
the  tiny  place.  Yet  they  make  their  mark  for 
twelve  hours  at  the  most,  until,  in  fact,  the  next 
day's  sun  cynically  wipes  them  out  with  the  fleecy 
and  baffling  pattern  of  other  pairs  of  feet. 

Even  the  great  white  cliff  at  the  end  of  the  sea 
front  is  not  as  permanent  as  it  tries  to  appear. 
There  are  visitors  at  Whyticombe  who  remember 
it  when  the  line  from  the  head,  where  the  coast- 
guard's cottage  lies,  ran  down  to  the  rocks,  truculent 
and  defiant,  like  the  ram  of  a  monster  battleship. 
The  patient,  sardonic  English  Channel  has  broken 
the  pride  of  the  cliff,  chipped  away  her  defiant  prow, 
and  left  her,  still  showing  an  obstinate  sky-line  to 
whomsoever  does  her  the  kindness  to  look  up,  but 
pitifully  dismembered  beneath  and — last  insult  of 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

all — the  subject  of  a  notice  board  set  up  on  the 
beach  and  bearing  this  legend:  "This  cliff  is  dan- 
gerous" .  .  . 

Charles  Cutman  who  was  smoking  an  after-din- 
ner cigar  on  the  front,  and  who  was  one  of  those 
who  had  known  the  great  white  cliff  in  the  days 
of  her  strength  and  pride,  gazed  upon  the  crippled 
edge,  unkindly  outlined  by  the  August  moon,  and 
felt  vaguely  depressed. 

"Time  has  defeated  you,"  he  murmured.  "Time 
and  tide" — he  threw  away  the  end  of  his  cigar  and 
rose. 

"Time  and  Tide,"  he  murmured  again  as  he 
turned  back  towards  his  hotel,  moved  by  emotions 
which  his  straightforward  cast  of  mind  found  quite 
impossible  to  dissect. 

"Funny,"  he  laughed  to  himself,  "I  suppose  we 
all  of  us  feel  like  writing  a  book  sometimes — it 
wouldn't  get  very  far!" — he  paused,  "and  I  dare- 
say that's  lucky,"  he  added  suddenly. 

Looking  up  he  saw  the  lighted  window  of  his 
room.  Emily,  he  thought,  was  getting  into  bed. 
Next  door  was  another  lighted  window.  That  was 
Harold's  room  .  .  .  Harold  must  have  aban- 
doned his  game  of  bridge  earlier  than  usual 

Cutman  suddenly  wheeled  round  and  looked  out 
again  to  sea.  A  soft  swell  was  purring  cruelly  upon 
the  shingle;  "wearing  down  the  pebbles  all  the 
time,  wearing  them  down  ever  so  softly." 

Too  gently   and  lovingly   for   complaint.      He 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

thrust  his  hands  into  the  pockets  of  his  dinner  jacket 
and  turned  towards  the  steps  which  led  up  to  the 
recently  installed  swing  doors.  On  the  second  step 
he  hesitated.  Something  seemed  to  be  whispering 
in  his  ear — "Look  at  the  cliff  I  look  at  the  cliff! 
look  at  the  cliff." 

Charles  Cutman  found  his  heart  beating  very 
fast.  For  a  moment  he  was  astonished;  it  was  just 
as  if  he  was  afraid  of  something. 

Then,  in  a  flash, — like  a  sudden  and  unexpected 
message  on  the  telephone,  he  knew  what  that  some- 
thing was.  He  wa.s  afraid  to  look  at  the  cliff.  He 
could  not  tell  why.  Anyway  of  course  it  was 
absurd — and  yet  he  hesitated.  Then,  what  he  had 
been  taught  to  call  his  "manhood"  asserted  itself. 
Really,  it  was  childish  deliberately  to  look  at  the 
cliff  because  he  thought  he  was  afraid.  Such  stupid 
ideas  must  simply  be  ignored. 

He  entered  the  hotel,  prepared  to  convince  him- 
self that  he  had  fought  down  a  morbid  and  unprofit- 
able moment.  Fighting  against  this  assumption  was 
an  uncomfortable  idea  that  a  fellow  of  the  down- 
right nature  which,  of  course,  he  knew  himself  to 
be,  would  have  taken  up  the  challenge — looked 
again  at  the  broken  cliff — and  damned  it  heartily. 
Charles  Cutman,  who  was  fifty-six  years  old  and 
had  made  a  very  comfortable  living  at  the  Bar  for 
a  period  which  now  seemed  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses eternal,  felt  a  professional  aversion  to  such 
sudden  and  unreasoned  emotions. 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE   IS 

Yet  he  did  not  go  straight  upstairs.  Instead,  he 
started  down  the  passage  towards  the  smoking 
room.  Peter  Margett  and  Owen  Weare,  friends  of 
many  years  standing,  would  be  certain  to  be  there. 
They  would  be  almost  equally  certain  to  be  talking 
about  golf. 

He  felt  he  would  very  much  like  to  hear  old  Peter 
and  Owen  talking  about  golf  .  .  .  even  their 
own  golf.  When  he  entered  the  smoking  room  he 
found  that  it  was  empty.  To-night,  its  familiarity 
seemed  more  insistent  than  ever  before.  Every 
August  for  twenty-six  years  he  had  been  to  the 
Beach  Hotel  at  Whyticombe. 

Not  twenty-six  years,  surely?  .  .  .  Yes,  it  was 
twenty-six.  He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  the  table 
by  his  side  and  drew  away  a  paper  at  random.  It 
was  the  "Devon  Gazette".  His  eye,  aimlessly 
roaming  over  the  print,  noted  an  Otter  Hunt  near 
Tiverton,  a  distribution  of  prizes  at  a  Horticultural 
Show,  held  apparently  at  a  place  called  Shute.  He 
put  the  paper  back  and  the  action  jerked  his  mind 
into  asking  how  often  he  had  picked  up  the  "Devon 
Gazette"  in  that  room  and  put  it  back  on  its  table. 

His  self-imposed  virility  snapped  at  him.  Why 
the  Devil  shouldn't  he  have  come  to  the  same  room 
for  many  years?  "You  are  merely  working  your- 
self into  a  mood,"  he  told  himself,  "and  you  are 
far  too  old  for  moods."  But  this  stimulant,  this 
deliberate  attempt  to  shout  down  and  bully  his 
emotions,  to  which  indeed  he  had  long  since  become 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

seasoned, — had  no  effect  and  he  was  plunged  deep 
into  his  'mood'  when  he  rose  and  stared  frowning 
into  the  glass.  He  could  find  no  reasonable  motive 
for  his  state  of  mind  (and  to  Cutman  'reasonable' 
was  very  nearly  synonymous  with  'legal')  and  he 
almost  hoped  to  discover  one  in  the  glass. 

Now  the  mirror  over  the  smoking  room  mantel- 
piece was  one  of  those  very  disconcerting  reflectors 
which  throw  back  an  absolutely  detailed  inventory 
of  a  face. 

Looking  glasses  are  many  and  various  as  the 
human  species.  The  Queen  Anne  specimen  in  the 
dressing  room  tells  quite  a  different  tale  to  that 
which  the  white  enamelled  variety  in  the  bathroom 
recounts,  on  the  next  morning  walk,  disgruntled, 
from  that  unsatisfactory  interview  with  the  bath- 
room glass,  and  the  Queen  Anne  specimen  will  still 
be  found  to  perform  her  kindly  office.  There  is,  of 
course,  some  scientific  explanation  for  these  dis- 
crepancies, but,  for  all  that,  the  more  satisfactory 
inference  is  that  one  glass  is  more  human  than 
another. 

Charles  Cutman  had  never  been  a  handsome 
man:  he  had  never  experienced  a  moment's  anxiety 
about  his  face.  Indeed,  he  would  have  considered 
any  anxiety  on  this  score  a  very  serious  reflection 
on  his  character  as  a  reputable  male  animal.  Still, 
the  mirror  in  the  smoking  room  at  the  Beach  Hotel, 
as  he  put  it  to  himself,  was  "damned  uncom- 
promising." 


WHERE   YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

He  wondered  whether  Emily  Cutman  saw  those 
horrible  affairs  under  his  eyes,  and  the  withering- 
apple  appearance  of  his  neck. 

No.  Emily  wouldn't  notice  that.  He  had  lived 
with  her  long  enough  to  know  that  she  was  one  of 
the  kindly  sort  of  looking  glasses.  But  that,  he 
thought,  as  he  stretched  out  his  legs  towards  the 
crinkled  paper  in  the  fireplace,  was  a  damnable  con- 
ception of  a  wife.  And  he  didn't  look  on  dear  old 
Emily  like  that — of  course  he  didn't. 

Curse  this  mood !  Why  on  earth  were  not  Peter 
Margett  and  Owen  Weare  in  the  room — talking 
about  golf?  It  was  what  one  had  a  right  to  expect 
of  one's  old  friends ;  that  they  would  talk  of  golf, 
or  bridge,  or  the  Near  East,  or  the  rate  of  Ex- 
change, whenever  these  antidotes  to  actual  life  were 
required. 

Charles  rose  and  sighed.  On  his  way  out  of  the 
room,  he  again  caught  sight  of  his  face  in  the 
unfriendly  glass. 

"Well,  there  it  is,"  he  muttered,  "I  am  fifty-seven 
and  I  look  fifty-seven — it's  a  rotten  tragedy  that  I 
don't  feel  fifty-seven!"  Thus  he  went  upstairs  to 
his  bedroom,  wrapt  about  with  self-pity. 

Peter  and  Owen  should  have  been  in  the  smoking 
room  when  he  wanted  them.  And  the  white  cliff — 
he  could  have  sworn  that  it  had  crumbled  still  fur- 
ther since  last  year.  Beastly  depressing.  What  on 
earth  had  possessed  him  to  go  and  sit  on  the  front 
all  alone  after  dinner? 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

He  undressed  himself  in  the  tiny  room  which  led 
out  of  his  bedroom,  laid  his  studs  out  carefully  in 
a  line  with  his  watch  and  his  pocket  book,  and 
started  to  brush  his  teeth.  The  water  was  cold  and 
uncomfortable.  His  pang  of  irritation  was  momen- 
tary, for  he  remembered  that  this  was  the  summer 
holiday  and  he  must  expect  to  be  uncomfortable. 
They  had  come  down  to  Devonshire  from  Waterloo 
only  the  day  before,  and  he  had  been  uncomfortable 
from  the  moment  he  had  started  to  pack  his  bag. 
Indeed,  he  had  been  more  or  less  uncomfortable 
every  August  for  twenty-six  years. 

He  plastered  another  unnecessary  layer  of  car- 
bolic upon  his  teeth  and  shivered.  Of  course, 
Harold  had  been  a  great  help  at  Waterloo.  Oh, 
yes,  his  boy  had  always  been  a  great  help :  he  felt 
cheered  at  the  idea  of  how  great  a  help  his  boy 
was.  Yet,  possibly,  had  Charles  known  it  Harold 
had  been  the  greatest  help  during  the  first  few 
hours  after  his  birth,  when  the  new  life  had  seemed, 
in  some  mysterious  way,  to  give  a  fresh  impetus  to 
the  original  honeymoon  feeling  between  himself 
and  Emily. 

After  those  first  inspired  hours,  there  was  a  great 
deal  of  Harold,  but  never  quite  the  same  thrill  from 
his  mere  being.  There  was  Harold  going  to  his 
first  school,  Harold  passing  an  examination  into  his 
second  school,  Harold  being  confirmed,  an  incident 
which  his  father  found  himself  unable  to  regard  as 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

the  crisis  which  Emily,  apparently  quite  sincerely, 
considered  it  to  be. 

Later,  Harold  at  Oxford:  Harold  with  ridicul- 
ous phases  and  ideas  —  Harold  reading  books 
which  his  father  had  never  heard  of,  books  written 
by  men  ten  or  fifteen  years  older  than  himself — 
books  which  Harold  called  "great"  ;  finally,  Harold, 
more  or  less  grown-up,  good-mannered,  getting  on 
quite  adequately  in  the  Chambers  where  his  father 
had  placed  him — altogether  to  be  sure,  satisfactory, 
respectful,  kind — unconsciously,  in  fact,  making  it 
evident  every  minute  of  the  day  that  Charles 
Cutman,  in  all  likelihood,  was  going  to  die,  some 
thirty  years  before  he  did — and  was,  to  that  extent, 
so  far  out-of-date  and  so  far  to  be  respected. 
Lately,  the  father  had  noticed  —  when  Harold 
was  in  a  particularly  healthy  mood,  that  his  son 
would  address  him  as  'sir.'  There  was  the  luggage 
at  Waterloo,  for  instance.  He  had  experienced 
some  trouble  with  a  fool  of  a  porter,  and  Harold 
had  been  at  his  elbow.  "Don't  bother  yourself 
about  it,  sir,"  Harold  had  said,  "I'll  see  the  stuff 
in " 

He  remembered  answering:  "Right-o!  Harry" — 
and  returning  to  Emily,  in  the  corner  which  he  had 
found  for  her,  with  a  vague  sense  of  defeat. 

Charles  Cutman  swilled  his  face  in  cold  water 
according  to  his  custom,  and  knelt  down  to  say 
his  prayers.  He  had  said  the  same  prayers 

8 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

mechanically  ever  since  he  had  first  gone  to  school. 
They  still  included  the  honourable  mention  of  aunts 
whom  he  had  forgotten — even  his  grandfather  was 
automatically  recommended  for  mercy — though  no 
one  knew  better  than  Charles,  how  little  that 
recommendation  was  deserved.  The  entire  cata- 
logue had  become  a  ritual  in  exactly  the  same  sense 
as  the  locking  and  bolting  of  the  front  door.  In  a 
way,  it  locked  and  bolted  himself,  being  part  of  the 
hundred  and  one  little  mechanical  pieces  of  his  life 
which  caused  him  to  continue  as  he  was  supposed 
to  be — supposed  to  be,  that  is,  by  the  Cutmans  who 
were  still  living — and,  especially,  of  course,  by 
Emily. 

He  went  into  his  bedroom,  picking  his  way  care- 
fully in  the  dark,  in  case  she  should  wake,  and 
approached  the  bed. 

Why  did  Emily  always  sleep  with  the  eiderdown 
half  over  her  face?  So  damned  unhealthy! 

He  removed  it  very  gently,  very  tenderly.  Then, 
without  a  sound,  he  crept  in  beside  her  and  putting 
out  the  light,  lay  listening  to  the  insidious  purring 
of  the  sea. 


A  quarter  of  a  century  ago  there  had  been  adven- 
ture in  the  life  of  Charles  Cutman — the  adventure 
of  uncertainty — even  of  improbability.  A  young 
man,  settled  through  a  lucky  friendship,  in  the 
Chambers  of  a  successful  barrister  who  was,  even 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

then,  on  the  point  of  taking  silk,  he  could  see  no 
reason  to  suppose  that  he  would  ever  make  a  living 
at  the  Bar — much  less  a  living  which  must  suffice 
for  three.  There  had  been  unexpected  chances, 
friends  in  need,  bits  and  pieces  of  incredible  fortune, 
narrow  squeaks  which  had  come  out  the  right  way, 
a  hundred  and  one  unforesoon  happenings  which 
had  built  up  the  present  Charles  Cutman,  Esq., 
Barrister-at-law,  with  a  very  permanent  and  sub- 
stantial practice,  solid  enough  to  warrant  a  house 
in  Wilton  Crescent  and  all  that  that  implies — but — 
somehow  or  other — without  adventure  any  more. 
With  the  security  of  his  present  position  he  would 
like  to  have  kept  the  almost  intoxicating  gamble, 
the  gay  optimism  of  his  early  days.  Now  there 
was  little  left  to  be  optimistic  about.  Actually,  that 
element  in  his  life  had  ceased  when  he  became 
engaged.  He  had  been  accepted  by  Emily  and  the 
last  big  thrill  was  behind  him.  The  succeeding 
years,  bringing  change  in  the  ideal  that  he  had 
wooed,  new  burdens  and  new  responsibilities,  had 
found  him  always  kind,  always  sympathetically 
efficient  in  his  changed  position.  He  was,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  perpetually  paying  back  what  he  owed 
for  the  joyous  moment  of  that  original  thrill. 

There  is  a  type  of  man,  unimaginative  and 
always  suspicious  of  pioneer  w,ork  in  any  form, 
dumbly  grateful  perhaps,  for  any  little  emotional 
excitement  which  comes  his  way,  but  accepting  with- 
out question  the  ultimate  and  possibly  dull  develop- 

10 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

ments  therefrom.  He  believes  his  villa  to  be  the 
finest  in  the  row,  and  his  sweet  peas  the  finest  in 
the  land — as  for  his  morals,  his  method  of  life, 
and  his  system  of  educating  his  young — these  are 
the  finest  in  the  world.  And,  indeed,  this  is  beyond 
question,  for  they  are  all  that  his  world  contains. 
This  type  of  man  is,  luckily,  in  the  majority.  He  is 
essential  to  the  well-being  and  the  stability  of  the 
universe.  Unfortunately  for  himself,  Charles  Cut- 
man  was  not  of  this  kind.  He  was  not,  it  is  true,  an 
imaginative  man,  and  temperament  would  be  the 
last  misfortune  with  which  to  credit  him,  but  his 
mind  was  sufficiently  active  to  produce  vague  fits  of 
uneasiness,  such  as  that  which  the  spectacle  of  the 
crumbling  cliff  had  brought  to  birth.  He  never 
traced  these  to  their  origin.  They  generally  came 
on  in  the  evening  and  Charles  was  wise  enough 
immediately  to  go  to  bed.  He  was  a  good  sleeper 
and  never  dreamt  of  the  worries  of  the  day.  To 
this  discipline  he  had  deliberately  trained  himself 
in  his  young  and  struggling  days,  for  the  habit  of 
dreaming  a  day  ovef  again  is  one  which  tends  to 
make  the  odds  too  t>ig.  So  he  never  allowed  the 
sun  to  go  down  upon  his  wrath.  Indeed,  he  seldom, 
knew  what  his  wrath  was  about. 

He  is  not,  therefore,  on  this  occasion,  to  be 
imagined  as  having  gone  through  the  aforesaid 
analysis  of  the  waning  thrill.  He  was  merely  puz- 
zled at  this  sense  of  depression  on  the  first  evening 
of  the  holidays.  Well,  he  argued,  it  may  have 

II 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

been  the  railway  journey,  or  perhaps  an  earlier  re- 
action than  usual — he  remembered  that  fearful 
holiday  reaction  which  he  had  experienced  as  a  boy, 
after  the  perfervid  celebrations  of  the  end  of  a 
term  ...  or  possibly  it  was  his  stomach.  There 
is  something  very  indigestible  about  a  meal  on  a 
train.  He  would  go  to  the  chemist's  and  buy  some 
salts  in  the  morning.  Excellent  things — salts  .  .  . 
then  he  would  have  a  round  on  the  links  in  the  after- 
noon. With  Peter  Margett,  perhaps  ...  or  bet- 
ter, a  foursome,  with  old  Weare  and  Loxbury.  It 
was  a  mistake  to  overdo  one's  exercise  at  the  begin- 
ning. There  was  the  fourteenth  hole  to  theorize 
about,  all  over  again  ...  it  was  a  bogey  five  .  .  . 
absurd  ...  he  had  never  actually  done  it  in  four, 
himself  .  .  .  but  that  was  not  enough  to  prove  any- 
thing and  Peter's  argument  had  been  ridiculous. 
He'd  show  Peter  why  again,  tomorrow.  If  one 
got  a  long  drive  away  up  beyond  the  cliff  slope,  and 
then  took  a  cleek  .  .  . 

Ten  minutes  later  Charles  had  laid  his  cleek  shot 
dead  and  holed  out.  Emily  stirred  uneasily  and 
woke.  Ah!  she  thought,  of  course — they  were  by 
the  sea.  Then  she  discovered  that  it  was  not  the 
sea  but  Charles,  snoring;  a  seraphic  smile  on  his 
face.  He  had  just  told  Peter  about  his  three  at  the 
fourteenth. 

"Adenoids,"  muttered  Emily,  "but  it's  too  late 

nowl"    That  was  Emily. 
\ 

12 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  Beach  Hotel  was  very  quiet;  the  little  town 
was  fast  asleep.  The  world  might  have  been  dead 
save  for  the  tireless  purring  of  the  obstinate  little 
waves  upon  the  shingle,  rubbing  away  patiently  at 
the  pebbles,  gradually  making  them  all  round  and 
uniform,  in  Nature's  tidy  way.  Of  course,  some  of 
the  bigger  fellows,  with  great  jagged  edges  and 
unreasonable  knobs,  took  a  great  deal  of  argument 
before  they  came  into  line.  But  the  waves  mur- 
mured to  one  another  'stick  to  it — stick  to  it' — and 
then  a  bigger  wave  would  come  along — chock-full 
of  encouragement,  so  that  the  sea  never  despaired — 
not  even  of  the  cliff. 

Harold  Cutman  was  the  first  to  come  down  the 
next  morning.  He  was  at  the  moment  going 
through  a  really  vicious  attack  of  health  mania. 
He  was  morbidly  and  horribly  healthy.  Indeed,  he 
was  almost  disappointed  in  the  fact  that  cold  water 
is  not  so  cold  in  the  summer.  His  bath  had  been 
a  failure.  However,  he  had  stood  on  the  beach  in 
a  coldish  wind  in  his  wet  bathing  dress  and  by  dint 
of  perseverance,  had  succeeded  in  getting  properly 
chilled  through,  so  that  his  attitude  at  the  break- 
fast table  was  that  of  a  virtuous  Tarzan. 

"Hello,  sir!"  he  said  to  Gabriel  Loxbury,  who 

13 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

was  the  next  of  the  party  to  come  in,  "been  in  the 
sea?" 

Loxbury  regarded  him  with  the  faintly  sarcastic 
smile  which  had  been  his  greatest  asset  in  life.  It 
enabled  him  to  make  the  most  offensive  remarks, 
and  always  to  withdraw,  in  case  of  disaster,  by 
saying  they  were  meant  in  fun.  He  had  known  the 
Cutmans,  the  Margetts  and  the  Weares  ever  since 
they  had  been  young  married  couples,  and  he  had 
offended  them  all  three  mortally,  on  an  average, 
three  times  a  year.  Yet,  somehow  or  other,  he  had 
always  been  forgiven,  for  except  in  the  things  which 
he  said,  he  was  of  a  kindly  nature  and  in  his  way, 
rather  disconcertingly  wise,  and  he  always  remem- 
bered to  send  the  children  something  extraordinarily 
well  thought  out,  at  Christmas ;  moreover,  the  wives 
were  sorry  for  him — because  he  was  a  bachelor. 
It  was  an  obsession  with  Emily  Cutman,  for  instance, 
that  the  bedding  in  Loxbury's  flat  was  in  a  perma- 
nent state  of  damp  and  corruption.  And  there  was 
a  kind  of  tradition  that  he  was  lonely — fostered, 
perhaps,  by  his  reputation  for  cynicism.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  Loxbury  probably  had  more  and  closer 
friends  than  any  average  man  is  entitled  to,  and  it 
is  very  doubtful  whether  he  had  ever  felt  con- 
sciously uncomfortable  in  his  life. 

"The  sea  is  for  the  young,  Harold,"  he  said,  "like 
all  boisterous  things." 

"Boisterous!  Why  it's  like  a  mill  pond,"  re- 
turned the  young  man.  "Not  a  single  wave  to  give 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

you  a  real  shaking-up,"  he  added  regretfully. 

Loxbury  picked  up  the  menu.  "Have  you  studied 
this  important  question  yet?"  he  asked. 

"Certainly,  I  have,"  said  Harold,  "I'm  as  hungry 
as  Tantalus — I'm  going  to  have  a  couple  of 
sausages  and  a  fried  egg!" 

"You  are  as  desperate  as  Tantalus  too,  then?" 
smiled  Loxbury.  "I  think  an  egg — lightly  boiled — 
for  me.  And  I  must  ask  for  some  red  pepper !  It 
counteracts  an  egg  in  a  wonderful  way." 

A  sort  of  indeterminate  bustle,  like  a  light  wind 
through  corn,  signalled  the  entrance  of  Emily  Cut- 
man.  She  had  a  way  of  coming  into  any  room  as  if 
about  to  attend  a  Cabinet  meeting.  Ever  since  the 
rearing  of  her  one  child  she  had  seemed  convinced 
that  there  must  always  be  something  extremely 
important  for  her  to  correct,  or  arrange  for,  or 
prevent.  Her  son  was  twenty-seven,  but  she  had 
never  for  a  moment  regarded  him  as  grown-up.  As 
for  Harold  himself,  he  was  very  fond  of  his  mother, 
and  was  moreover,  kind  by  nature  so  that  he  never 
allowed  her  to  see  that  he  was  alive  to  her  rather 
absurd  behaviour.  She  had  a  habit  of  speaking 
quickly  and  jumping  from  one  train  of  thought  to 
another  without  a  signal  of  any  kind.  Conse- 
quently her  conversation  was  somewhat  difficult  to 
follow  and  her  husband  made  it  a  rule  only  to  con- 
centrate on  the  last  sentence  of  any  remarks  she  let 
fall.  She  smiled  quickly  to  Loxbury  and  turned  to 
Harold  with  a  complete  change  of  expression.  To 

15 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

one  who  did  not  know  her  she  might  now  have  been 
in  a  state  of  anxiety  only  to  be  occasioned  by  the 
certain  imminence  of  some  frightful  disaster. 

"Harold,"  she  said,  "you  have  been  in  the  sea! 
I  am  quite  certain  that  you  are  not  dry!" 

"Dry  as  a  bone,  mother!"  he  returned.  "What's 
become  of  father?" 

Emily,  with  a  little  jerk  of  the  head,  like  a  bird 
looking  for  food  on  a  lawn,  dashed  off  into  another 
worry. 

"Most  annoying !"  she  said.  "He  forgot  to  pack 
his  safety-razor.  Of  course,  he  has  his  ordinary 
one — it's  been  in  his  dressing-case  for  years — but 
I  wouldn't  let  him  use  that.  Never  touched!  No- 
body knows  what  might  be  on  it — Dr.  Weare  was 
talking  about  Streptococci  only  the  other  day — what 
large  families  they  have,  you  know  .  .  .  but  it's 
like  Mr.  Margett  talking  about  finance.  I  can't 
contend  with  more  than  four  noughts.  Of  course,  if 
we'd  had  Jeyes'  or  something  to  wash  it  in — but, 
then  we  haven't — and  it's  probably  septic  now,  or 
whatever  it  is  in  hospitals.  So  he's  gone  up  the 
street  in  rather  a  temper,  I'm  afraid — but  what 
could  one  do,  Mr.  Loxbury? — don't  you  think  so?" 

Loxbury  had  no  very  clear  notion  of  what  he  was 
meant  to  think,  so  he  contented  himself  with  a  non- 
committal nod  and  remarked:  "Very  much  wiser." 

"I  don't  know  who  packed  the  roll  of  rugs,"  went 
on  Harold's  mother,  with  another  bird-like  shake 
of  the  head.  "I  know  it  wasn't  I.  Did  you, 

16 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Harold?  Charles  says  he  things  Parkin  did,  but 
it's  very  unlike  Parkin.  We've  had  him  for  years — 
well,  isn't  it?" 

Harold  saw  that  he  was  addressed  and  rallied  his 
senses.  He  realised  that  there  had  been  some  fur- 
ther disaster  here. 

"What  has  happened,  mother"?  he  asked. 

Emily  dashed  at  her  story  again. 

"If  it  was  Parkin,  someone  will  have  to  speak. 
So  careless !  Besides,  look  at  the  prices  of  things  1 
It's  not  like  the  old  days.  Why,  in  my  mother's 
time  you  could  get  quite  a  good  one  for  seven-and- 
sixpence — less,  if  you  didn't  mind  a  common  handle. 
Twenty-five  and  eleven  I  gave  for  mine — or  rather, 
Charles  did.  It  was  a  present  of  his,  and  of  course 
that  makes  it  worse.  I  never  thought  of  that!  I 
wonder  if  it  was  Parkin?" 

She  paused,  convinced  that  she  had  made  per- 
fectly clear  the  fact  that  Charles'  walking-stick, 
through  careless  packing,  had  been  thrust  through 
the  silk  of  her  parasol.  Dr.  Weare  entered  the 
room  at  this  moment,  his  wife  close  behind  him. 
He  was  fifty  years  old,  and  on  his  holiday,  always 
looked  more  like  a  prosperous  farmer  than  a  doctor. 
The  face,  which,  under  his  professional  top-hat 
looked  ordinarily  healthy,  took  on  the  appearance 
of  a  red  November  sun  in  his  holiday  surroundings. 
He  wore  the  most  striking  of  golfing  suits,  with  the 
most  blatant  of  tassels  appearing  from  underneath 
the  tops  of  his  stockings.  A  slight  tendency  to 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

corpulence  which,  in  London  and  a  morning  coat, 
was  considered  merely  to  give  him  dignity,  now 
seemed  to  reveal  itself  as  a  really  stupendous 
paunch.  He  was  proud  of  his  bucolic  disguise  in  the 
country,  as  if  it  was  a  kind  of  protective  colouring, 
and  he  aided  and  abetted  it  in  every  way  he  could. 
Only  his  hands,  which  were  delicate  and  nervous, 
betrayed  the  fact  that  he  was  not  what  he  took  so 
much  trouble  to  appear.  His  wife  was  almost  a 
complete  contrast  to  him.  Her  figure  had  remained 
the  same  as  it  had  been  when  she  was  a  girl.  A 
little  thin,  a  little  spare  about  the  shoulders,  with  a 
well  poised  head  and  a  pair  of  rather  wonderful 
eyes.  Her  face  had  at  one  time  been  the  perfect 
oval  of  one  of  the  Florentine  Madonnas,  but  her 
mouth  was  thin  and  the  passage  of  time  had  rather 
enhanced  this.  Her  eyes,  however,  remained  the 
same,  large  and  of  a  curious  kind  of  blue  which 
appeared  sometimes  as  steely  and  hard,  and  at 
others  as  infinitely  soft,  yet  never  seemed  actually 
to  change  at  all.  They  were  less  like  human  eyes 
than  two  aqua-marines  set  in  the  brownish-gold  of 
her  long  eyelashes.  She  reminded  some  people  of 
Burne-Jones:  others  of  Botticelli's  calm  and  yield- 
ing women,  others  of  the  more  subtle  Leonardo  da 
Vinci.  To  a  stranger,  the  most  noticeable  thing 
about  her  was  her  amazing  silence.  She  would  sit 
in  a  mixed  company  where  all  manner  of  subjects 
were  being  discussed,  laughed  over,  or  debated  even 
with  acrimony,  without  once  opening  her  lips.  Her 

18 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

hands  would  be  folded  on  her  lap,  her  head  a  little 
forward,  but  only  her  eyes  seemed  to  be  following 
the  conversation.  Whether  Loveday  Weare  was 
bored  on  these  occasions,  or  whether  it  was  simply 
that  she  had  nothing  to  say,  none  even  of  her  friends 
had  ever  been  able  to  decide.  Religion,  children, 
politics,  Art,  everyday  life — no  one  knew  what  she 
thought  of  any  of  them.  Cutman,  indeed,  had  con- 
fided to  Emily  that  it  was  his  private  opinion  that 
Loveday  Weare  was  simply  a  fool,  but  Emily,  who 
was  almost  insanely  loyal  when  an  old  friend  was 
in  question,  had  told  him  that  his  opinion  merely 
showed  that  he  had  no  imagination.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  that  Emily  Cutman 
had  very  much  insight  into  the  character  of  Love- 
day  Weare.  But,  of  course,  with  women  you  never 
can  tell  .  .  . 

As  far  as  household  matters  were  concerned,  and 
the  well-being  of  her  husband,  Mrs.  Weare  was 
every  bit  as  efficient  as  Emily. 

She  was  also  passionately  fond  of  dogs:  alto- 
gether, rather  a  baffling  personality. 

"Well,  here  we  all  are  again!"  exclaimed  the 
doctor.  "I  wonder  what  Whyticombe  would  do 
without  us  I  And,  upon  my  soul,"  he  added,  "I  be- 
lieve it's  the  same  table  as  we  all  had  last  year." 

"Yes,  it  is,"  answered  Harold,  "I  don't  know 
about  anyone  else,  but  I'm  as  hungry  as  a  bird  in  a 
frost!" 

"You've  been  in  the  sea  already?"  said  Weare. 

19 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"And  why  not?    Youth  can  afford  to  take  risks !" 

Loxbury  smiled.  "Do  you  think  they  could  afford 
to  take  the  risks,  Owen,  if  they  knew?"  he  asked. 

"Knew  what?"  queried  the  doctor. 

"That  nature,  like  a  first-class  tailor,  only  insists 
upon  the  bill  being  paid  when  one  is  fifty !" 

Emily  Cutman  broke  in  breathlessly.  "That's 
why  people  call  you  a  cynic,"  she  said,  shaking  a 
finger  at  Loxbury.  "Yes,  they  do!  I  don't  know 
what  you  meant,  but  you  couldn't  really  have  meant 
it — that's  what  a  cynic  is — isn't  it?  Well,  why  say 
the  things?  That's  what  I  am  always  telling 
Charles,  though  of  course  he's  not  a  cynic.  But  on 
Sunday  mornings  he  has  the  most  extraordinary 
views  about  everything.  But  then  men  do.  Oh, 
Harold,  would  you  have  sausages  as  well?" 

This  last,  as  Harold  gave  his  order  to  the  waiter. 
Emily  had  no  idea  that  in  the  one  sentence  she  had 
entirely  blotted  out  from  everyone's  mind  her  pre- 
ceding remarks.  So  it  was  that  she  went  straight 
on  with  her  peroration. 

"That's  what  I  always  say  about  cynics,  don't 
you,  dear?" 

Loveday  Weare  turned  her  great  eyes  on  Emily, 
and  nodded  slowly.  The  silence  of  Mrs.  Weare, 
thought  Loxbury,  was  only  completely  understand- 
able when  she  was  dealing  with  Emily  Cutman. 

"Here's  Charles,"  said  the  latter,  as  her  husband 
appeared  in  the  doorway,  shaved  and  rosy,  "let's 
start  breakfast  I"  To  Emily,  her  husband's  appear- 

20 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

ance  was  always  a  signal  that  whatever  was  in  hand 
at  the  moment  could  go  forward.  She  would  never 
have  thought,  for  a  moment,  of  starting  her  break- 
fast without  him.  Charles  said  his  "good-morn- 
ings" and  took  his  seat,  whereupon  a  breathless 
silence  ensued.  It  was  as  though  some  sign  was 
expected,  the  absence  of  which  would  prove  a  bitter 
disappointment  to  the  people  round  the  table. 

"Well,"  said  Charles  at  last,  "here  we  all  are 
again — same  old  room,  same  old  table,  same  old 
people  I"  He  paused.  Evidently  the  expected  had 
not  yet  happened.  "It's  a  wonderful  day,  too,"  he 
added,  and  Harold  started  to  smile.  "What's  the 
proverb?"  went  on  his  father.  "'Fine  first  day, 
fine  all  the  way!'  " 

The  doctor  banged  on  the  tablecloth  childishly 
with  his  fork.  "He's  said  it,"  he  shouted,  "he's 
said  it!" 

Mrs.  Weare  smiled  at  her  plate.  Emily  turned 
eagerly  to  the  doctor, 

"Was  there  a  bet  about  it?"  she  asked. 

He  nodded.  "I  had  ten  bob  with  Harold  and  a 
pound  with  Peter,"  he  said  triumphantly. 

Charles  turned  to  him.  "May  one  ask,  Owen," 
he  said,  with  an  assumption  of  enormous  dignity, 
"what  exactly  one  has  said,  to  warrant  the  payment 
of  these  vast  sums  of  money?" 

"Why,  the  proverb,  Dad,"  broke  in  Harold, 
"that's  been  your  first  remark  here  for  the  last  three 
years!" 

21 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Three?  Seven  or  eight,  rather  I"  amended  the 
'doctor. 

"Has  it?"  said  Emily.  "Do  you  know  I'd  never 
really  noticed  it !" 

"But  then  you  know  father  so  well,  mother," 
Harold  leant  across  the  table  to  her.  "You  never 
notice  anything  he  does  because  you're  so  used  to 
him!" 

Loxbury  cut  in  suddenly.  "Now,  that  really  is 
cynicism,"  he  said  to  Emily. 

"I  should  not  have  called  Harold  a  cynic," 
snapped  Cutman.  "He's  past  that  stage  by  seven 
years !  Peter  Margett's  very  late !" 

The  fact  that  Weare  and  his  boy  and  Margett 
had  made  a  bet  on  his  idiosyncrasies  rather  annoyed 
him.  He  knew  that  it  was  an  unreasonable  annoy- 
ance and  hoped  that  no  one  noticed  it.  Of  course, 
everyone  did,  except,  equally,  of  course,  Emily. 
But  dear  old  Cutman!  They  all  knew  how  easily 
annoyed  he  was,  and  how  equally  easily  pacified. 

Joan  Margett  who  came  in  with  her  daughter, 
Alison,  possessed  an  outward  appearance  which  was 
uncompromisingly  uninteresting.  All  her  features 
seemed  dull  and  without  life,  especially  her  mouth 
which  somehow  managed  to  produce  words  with 
less  movement  than  appeared  possible.  Perhaps  in 
compensation  for  this  immobile  manner,  her  hands 
and  her  method  of  using  them  in  conversation  were 
quite  amazingly  expressed.  She  came  from  the 
Highlands,  and  had  inherited  from  some  remote 

22 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

ancestor  an  utterly  irrational  strain  of  almost 
savage  imagination.  She  would,  for  instance,  pro- 
duce entirely  unexpected  emotional  viewpoints  of 
natural  objects,  which  she  would  embody  in  some 
short,  breathless  sentence,  so  picturesque,  so  vivid 
that  it  seemed  to  her  listeners  as  if  it  must  be  a 
quotation  from  a  classic.  But  it  never  was,  for  Joan 
Margett  had  not  read  the  classics.  She  possessed 
in  her  nature,  this  curious  sense  of  colour — colour 
in  everything — words,  music,  character,  life.  As  a 
girl,  she  had  written  verse — written  it  because  it 
had  been  a  natural  expression  of  her  self — as 
natural  as  the  movements  of  her  hands.  Then,  in 
middle-age,  she  had  realized  that  verse,  which  re- 
mained in  little  notebooks,  locked  up  in  the  drawers 
of  her  bureau  was  just  a  trifle  sterile.  Moreover, 
Peter  Margett,  who  was  the  editor  of  a  Sunday 
paper,  had  once  read  some  of  them  and,  quite 
kindly,  had  stamped  them  as  unmarketable. 

Therefore,  one  winter  afternoon,  Joan  had  col- 
lected her  notebooks  and  burnt  them.  Not,  how- 
ever, before  she  had  recited  many  of  her  poems  in  a 
whisper  to  herself,  accompanied  by  those  vivid 
hands,  and  told  herself  that  they  were  good.  Still, 
they  would  never  see  the  light  and  they  were  futile. 
So  they  died.  The  practical  and  the  poetic  were  in 
equal  parts  in  her  nature.  Since  the  funeral  pyre 
of  these  early  efforts  had  been  consumed,  she  had 
written  no  more.  It  did  not  appear  to  her  worth 
while.  Still,  she  could  not  prevent  those  sudden 

23 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

emotional  word  pictures  which  seemed  every  now 
and  then  to  leap  to  her  lips,  like  stars  shooting 
down  the  sky  to  meet  the  horizon.  She  was  no 
poseur,  and,  truth  to  tell,  had  she  had  time  to  think, 
she  would  probably  never  have  given  utterance  to 
half  the  remarks  which  seemed  to  make  everyone 
else  silent  and  even  uncomfortable.  But  the  damage 
was  always  done  before  it  could  be  stopped,  and  so 
Joan  Margett  had  the  reputation  amongst  her 
friends  of  being  a  little  odd — much  odder,  for 
instance,  than  Loveday  Weare,  whom  everyone 
privately  regarded  as  a  fool,  which  was  really  very 
unfortunate  for  her,  since,  if  she  had  been  a  man, 
her  silence  would  probably  have  been  taken  as  an 
indication  of  great  wisdom.  But  somehow  women 
are  never  supposed  to  be  wise,  and  of  course,  if 
you  are  just  clever,  you  talk  a  great  deal.  .  .  . 

Alison  Margett  was  highly  intelligent  and  ex- 
tremely athletic.  She  would  discuss  quite  ade- 
quately with  her  father  the  policy  of  his  paper,  and 
could  remember  accurately  what  she  had  read  in 
its  contemporaries.  To  Peter  Margett,  naturally, 
this  appeared  the  best  possible  form  of  intelligence 
and  he  was  extremely  proud  of  his  daughter,  though, 
in  truth,  he  knew  little  about  her.  But  he  made  a 
point  of  asking  her  opinion  upon  matters  of  public 
interest  in  the  presence  of  other  people.  If  ever  a 
question  of  Art  was  under  discussion  he  would  pay 
his  wife  the  compliment  of  asking  for  her  views,  but 
joan  seldom  rose  to  the  bait.  She  had  the  natural 

24 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

shyness  of  those  who  know  they  are  apt  to  be  be- 
trayed into  real  emotion,  and  so  she  hated  nothing 
so  much  as  an  argument.  As  for  Peter  himself,  he 
was  a  very  successful  editor,  and  might  from  sheer 
ability,  have  become  something  really  worth  while, 
but  for  a  deplorable  trait  in  his  nature  which  made 
him  invent  facts  in  support  of  his  favourite 
theories — a  trait  which,  having  been  in  operation 
for  thirty-odd  years,  had  now  left  him  sincerely 
convinced  of  these  self-made  facts  and,  on  any  gen- 
eral subject,  entirely  biassed  and  unreliable.  But 
he  was  kind,  jovial,  and  outside  his  own  pet  illusions, 
tolerant,  and  his  club  considered  him  an  "awfully 
good  fellow." 

He  came  into  the  room  now  and  joined  the  others 
at  the  breakfast  table.  Weare  hailed  him  with  a 
shout.  "You've  lost  your  money,  Peter,"  he  said. 

"Good  old  Charles,"  chuckled  Margett,  "by  the 
law  of  averages  I  made  certain  he'd  miss  it  this 
year!" 

"H'm!"  grunted  Charles.  "By  any  law  of  prob- 
ability you'd  imagine  Mrs.  Weare  would  have 
burnt  the  doctor's  ridiculous  stockings  before  now!" 

"Charles,"  said  Emily,  "that's  very  unkind — very 
unkind.  I  don't  like  the  tassels,  but  then  who  am  I  ? 
After  all,  if  it  gives  pleasure  to  anyone  to  have 
tassels,  why  not?  Besides,  I  daresay  they  are 
garters,  really.  Of  course,  if  things  are  quite  use- 
less, only  women  ought  to  wear  them,  I  suppose — 
though  why,  I  can't  quite  $ee,  can.  you?" 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

She  turned  quickly,  in  her  bird-like  way,  upon 
Loxbury,  who,  unfortunately,  had  automatically 
ceased  to  listen  the  moment  that  Emily  had  started 
talking. 

"Weare's  stockings?"  he  queried,  desperately  re- 
calling the  thread  of  the  conversation.  "Isn't  it  a 
natural  reaction  to  the  spats  which  are  part  of  his 
bedside  manner?" 

Loveday  Weare's  curiously  low-pitched  voice 
seemed  to  come  from  somewhere  outside  the  group 
at  the  table. 

"You  may  like  it,"  she  said,  "or  you  may  not  like 
it :  but  it's  no  more  silly  than  a  tie  round  a  collar." 

Alison  Margett  broke  the  pause.  "You  wouldn't 
like  a  man  without  a  tie,"  she  said,  "a  naked  stud 
is  a  horrible  sight." 

Mrs.  Weare  smiled  at  her  and  nodded.  "Yes," 
she  said  slowly,  "it's  the  same  sort  of  idea  that 
makes  men  want  to  cover  up  their  braces  ... 
but  I  don't  know  that  it  is  really  so  healthy  an  idea 
as  everyone  thinks!" 

"You  see,"  Loxbury  broke  in,  "one's  instinct  is 
to  cover  up  any  article  of  clothing  that  is  actually 
doing  something." 

'That's  true,'"  said  Margett,  "very  true;  caging 
in  the  engine;  concealing  the  secret.  Think  of  a 
clock  1  There's  always  something  indecent  about 
glass  sides!  Hide  the  works!  It's  an  instinct  I" 

Peter  Margett  always  seemed  to  carry  on  a  con- 
versation in  headlines. 

26 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"But  the  works  of  a  clock,"  interjected  Joan 
Margett,  "are  hidden  because  of  the  dust  .  ,  . 
the  dust,"  she  repeated,  as  if  to  herself. 

Vaguely  everyone  felt  that  there  was  something 
deep,  something  very  well  thought  out  behind  her 
contribution,  and  it  resulted  in  switching  off  that 
topic  of  conversation  as  one  switches  off  an  electric 
light. 

Mrs.  Margett  was  always  finding  that  she  had 
this  effect,  and  she  could  never  discover  why.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  she  had  always  made  the  mistake 
of  imagining  that  when  men  and  women  said  things, 
they  were  expressions  of  considered  conviction. 
Now  she  realized  that  she  had  again  been  the  cause 
of  what  she  privately  had  christened  "nasty  pocket 
of  silence."  Indeed,  the  bump  of  an  aeroplane  in 
an  air-pocket  seemed  very  comparable  to  the  con- 
versational bump  of  which  she,  so  often,  appeared 
to  be  the  cause. 

It  was  Dr.  Weare  who  regained  control.  "Are 
you  going  to  bathe  this  morning,  Alison?"  he  asked, 
"or  aren't  you  yet  feeling  sufficiently  declimatized 
from  Kensington?" 

Alison  laughed.  "I  like  to  keep  my  body  ready 
for  the  sea  at  any  minute,"  she  said,  "even  in  Ken- 
sington." 

"Hear!  Hear  I"  Harold  put  in,  and  his  mother 
smiled  at  him  as  if  she  was  entirely  in  accord  with 
this  athletic  ideal,  though  in  point  of  face,  she  was 

27 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

just  a  little  shaken  at  the  notion  of  any  woman  men- 
tioning her  body  at  all. 

Peter  Margett  nodded.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "quite 
right.  Always  ready  for  anything — especially 
nature.  Al  in  C3  surroundings !  Big  idea — though 
Alison  probably  doesn't  know  itl" 

"And  moreover,"  broke  in  the  purring  voice  of 
Loxbury,  "it  will  make  Peter's  seat  on  the  shingle 
seem  so  much  more  comfortable,  to  see  his  daughter 
looking  thoroughly  wet  in  the  sea !" 

"Charles  Cutman  laughed.  "You're  a  horrible 
old  cynic,  Loxbury,"  he  said,  "and  you've  no  right 
to  say  anything  as  true  as  that  during  the  holidays !" 

"True?  Rubbish! — "  Margett's  staccato  voice 
broke  in.  "Loxbury's  world  is  a  microcosm.  It  is 
bounded  on  the  north  by  his  valet,  on  the  south 
by  his  Valet,  on  the  east  by  a  bottle  of  old  Cham- 
bertin,  and  on  the  west  by  a  glass  of  '65  Brandy. 
How  should  he  know  anything  about  the  sea?" 

"You'll  never  be  anything  else  than  a  club-type, 
Loxbury,"  laughed  Weare. 

Emily  Cutman  intervened  quickly.  "That's  very 
cruel,  Dr.  Weare,"  she  said,  "very  cruel.  I  am 
sure  you  didn't  mean  it.  I  can't  imagine  how  men 
can  be  so  unkind  to  one  another.  But  then,  of 
course,  they  often  fight,  don't  they?  Well,  of 
course,  not  our  class  of  men,  but  they  all  have  some- 
thing in  common.  I  suppose  it's  the  animal:  but 
perhaps  it  isn't — anyway,  don't  Jet's  argue  about 

28 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

it!  Men  seem  to  argue  for  ever.  It  is  such  waste, 
don't  you  think?"  She  turned  to  Loveday  Weare 
with  this  last  question  and  that  lady  nodded  very 
deliberately,  then  suddenly  looked  up. 

"I  don't  know  after  all,  dear,"  she  said.  "Per- 
haps, from  our  point  of  view,  it  lessens  their  powers 
of  exhaustion  I" 

"Exhaustion?"  Charles  Cutman  echoed  the  word, 
all  of  a  sudden,  like  a  twanged  wire — then  broke 
off,  as  sharply  again,  like  the  same  singing  wire 
when  someone  has  placed  a  finger  on  it.  Vaguely, 
like  the  unformed,  elusive  memory  of  a  dream,  that 
word  recalled  the  mood  of  the  night  before.  He 
could  not  even  remember  the  emotion  of  that  mood 
now,  but  the  note  had  been  struck  which  brought 
back  a  sense  of  some  queer  thing  in  himself  which 
had  to  be  hidden — like  the  braces  and  all  those 
clothes  which  were  actually  doing  things.  He  rose 
to  his  feet,  cheerily. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said,  "who's  for  the  beach?" 


CHAPTER  III. 

''Of  course,"  said  Margett  suddenly,  "this  must 
really  be  awfully  bad  for  us — enervating — saps  the 
tissues  I" 

He  was  lying  on  the  beach  with  Cutman  watching 
from  under  his  hat  the  heat  rising  like  a  shimmer- 
ing veil  off  the  pebbles. 

"Yes,"  answered  Charles,  "better  to  be  on  the 
Cliff— golfing." 

"But  we  never  play  on  the  first  morning,"  mur- 
mured the  other. 

"No,  never,"  answered  Charles.  He  propped 
himself  up  uneasily  upon  one  elbow  and  looked 
down  towards  the  water.  Near  the  sea's  edge  a 
little  group  sat  watching  the  bathers — Loxbury,  and 
the  women.  Charles  looked  at  the  three  parasols. 

"What  an  extraordinary  air  of  contentment,"  he 
said,  "the  back  of  a  parasol  seems  to  imply!" 

"Ye  Gods!"  interjected  Margett.  "There's  old 
Owen  going  into  the  water !  Like  a  great  red  por- 
poise !  And  nobody  laughs  I  Now,  if  they  did  that 
on  the  stage  I  .  . 

Cutman  pulled  his  hat  over  his  eyes  and  grunted. 

"Weare's  a  damned  old  fool,"  he  said,  "he'll  end 
by  getting  a  stroke  or  something!" 

"After  all,  he's  a  doctor,"  said  the  other. 

30 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"I  daresay.  I'm  a  barrister:  but  I  may  be  the 
victim  of  litigation  for  all  that,  some  day  or  other  I" 

"Rot,  Cutman.  After  all  your  experience  you 
could  never  bring  yourself  to  write  a  cheque  for  ia 
solicitor." 

A  rich  deep  voice  broke  in  from  behind  them. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Cutman  and  Mr.  Margett," 
it  said,  "welcome  back  again!" 

"Morning,  Willis,"  returned  Cutman,  "what 
kind  of  a  season  is  it  going  to  be?" 

"About  usual,  sir,"  said  the  voice,  and  its  owner 
seemed  to  coil  himself  into  the  pebbles  besides  them 
with  all  the  grace  of  a  snake  in  its  native  rock  home. 

Ted  Willis  was  the  doyen  of  the  Whyticombe 
fishermen.  That  his  name  should  have  been  Willis 
was  a  perpetual  mystery,  because  on  looking  at  him, 
it  was  perfectly  obvious  that  he  was  a  grandee  of 
Spain  of  very  high  caste.  Moreover,  he  was  not 
like  the  majority  of  these  men,  one  whose  knowledge 
of  the  sea  was  bounded  by  the  bay  and  the  sailing 
capacity  of  his  boat.  The  whole  world  had  been 
his  club  for  many  years  before  he  had  decided  that 
there  was  no  more  adventure  for  one  of  his  years, 
and  had  settled  down  at  Whyticombe,  where  he  had 
been  born,  with  the  curious  homing  fatalism  of  his 
southern  blood.  No  one  knew  very  much  about  his 
birth — after  all,  it  was  an  event  of  nearly  seventy 
years  ago — but  there  is  no  doubt  that  it  was  not 
lawful.  And  when  you  looked  into  his  face  with  its 
high  forehead,  its  thousands  of  tiny  wrinkles  on  the 

31 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

brown  skin,  its  still  iron-grey,  rather  drooping, 
moustache  and  its  whiter  hair,  with  the  deep-set, 
brooding  brown  eyes  that  could  yet  fire  with  en- 
thusiasm on  occasions — then  you  had  no  doubt  what- 
ever that  somewhere  away  back  in  the  pedigree  of 
Ted  Willis,  you  would  come  across  a  very  fine 
gentleman,  strutting  the  quarter-deck  of  a  Spanish 
galleon,  fighting  with  hopeless  courage  that  God- 
sent  storm  of  1588,  and  beaching  his  quivering  ship, 
perhaps  on  the  Sanscombe  rocks,  round  the  corner 
to  the  west,  over  the  great  white  cliff.  But,  even 
without  looking  at  his  face,  you  could  feel  that  there 
was  some  strain  of  greatness  in  the  fisherman  by  the 
way  in  which  he  sat  unbidden  beside  his  superiors 
without  giving  offence,  and  by  the  tone  of  the  'sir' 
which  he  never  failed  to  use  in  addressing  them. 

If  you  walk  along  the  beaches  of  South  Devon 
you  will  find  many  of  these  long-shore  aristocrats, 
but  you  may  fare  far  before  you  find  one  whose 
intellectual  ability  matches  the  coat-of-arms  which 
is  stamped  upon  his  face.  Willis  had  no  library  in 
the  little  cottage  in  Boniton  Street  where  he  lived; 
he  had,  it  is  very  possible,  never  read  half-a-dozen 
books  in  his  life;  but  he  had  lived  nearly  seventy 
years  with  a  brain  behind  those  dark  eyes,  which 
transformed  them  into  microscopes,  and  forty  of 
those  years  had  been  spent  with  the  rover  ticket  of 
a  sailor  on  the  world's  promenades.  Moreover,  he 
could  talk — talk,  indeed,  when  the  fit  was  on  him, 
in  a  way  which,  until  the  spell  was  over,  made  all 

32 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

the  books  of  the  universe  seem  lifeless  and  without 
hope.  The  truth  is  that  Ted  Willis  might  have 
been  a  great  success — as  a  novelist,  or  a  sailor,  or  a 
father — or  in  any  of  those  occupations  where 
imagination  is  essential  to  counteract  despair,  ex- 
cept for  the  fact  that  he  was  divinely  lazy  and  had 
never  been  in  any  hurry  to  try  to  cheat  Death  by 
pretending  to  have  achieved  something  before  his 
visit. 

"Are  we  going  to  have  a  fine  August,  Willis?" 
asked  Margett,  passing  his  tobacco  over  to  the 
fisherman. 

"The  first  half  should  be  pretty  well,"  came  the 
answer,  as  the  fisherman  filled  his  pipe.  "What  you 
want  to  do,  I  should  do  quickly.  It  is  always  a  good 
rule.  Thank  you,  sir,"  he  added,  as  he  returned 
the  pouch. 

Charles  Cutman  waved  a  hand  towards  the  cliff. 
"The  white  cliff's  gone  a  bit  more  since  last  year, 
hasn't  it?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Willis,  "I'm  wondering 
which  will  go  first;  the  cliff  or  1 1" 

"Rot,  Willis,"  said  the  Editor  heartily,  "there's 
another  twenty  years  in  you  yet!" 

"Maybe  twenty  years,"  returned  the  fisherman, 
"or  maybe  twenty  minutes — or  even  seconds.  The 
same  as  the  old  cliff.  Who  knows  how  far  she  is 
undermined?  Who  knows  how  far  he  himself  is 
undermined?"  He  stretched  out  a  muscular  brown 
arm  towards  the  notice  board  at  the  rock's  edge. 

33 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"You  see  that  sign,  sir?"  'This  cliff  is  danger- 
ous*. It  might  be  a  good  thing,  don't  you  think,  if 
some  of  us  could  put  a  sign  like  that  by  our  own 
sides?"  He  paused.  "And  not  only  for  Death," 
he  added  slowly. 

"For  what,  then?"  asked  Cutman,  with  the 
slightest  of  rasps  in  his  voice. 

"Oh,  lots  of  things,  sir,"  returned  the  old  man. 
"The  dimming  of  enthusiasms,  the  beginnings  of 
regrets,  the  moment  when  one  knows  one  is  just 
waiting  for  the  end  of  things,  and  one  doesn't  care 
enough  to  do  anything  more  than  wait.  The  young 
fellows  with  their  newly  bought  boats,  sir,  they 
break  their  hearts  if  the  mackerel  don't  come  into 
the  bay,  and  that's  what  they  should  be  doing. 
When  the  day  comes  that  they  shrug  their  shoulders 
and  say  'tain't  any  use  bothering' — then  I  say  'tis 
time  to  put  up  the  notice  'This  cliff  is  dangerous'  I" 

"Willis,  you're  an  old  fool!"  said  Margett  cheer- 
fully. "You're  trying  to  persuade  yourself  that 
youth  is  the  only  thing  that  matters,  just  because 
you  haven't  got  it!" 

"But  I  have  got  it,  sir,"  rejoined  the  fisherman. 
"It  isn't  the  years  that  count;  it's  the  joy  you  find 
in 'em  I" 

"Then  why  the  devil  do  you  want  to  put  up  the 
notice  board?"  queried  Cutman  irritably. 

"For  my  own  good,  sir — that's  all  I" 

The  old  man  rose  slowly,  puffing  at  his  pipe. 

34 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Mr.  Harold  will  be  letting  me  know  when  he  feels 
like  a  piece  of  fishing?"  he  asked. 

Cutman  nodded.  "He  wouldn't  go  out  with 
anyone  else,  Willis — and  you  know  it." 

"Exactly,  sir,"  replied  the  fisherman.  "That's 
what  I  meant  about  the  joy  you  find  in  *em." 

A  small  fussy  man  in  a  blazer  bustled  up  to  him. 

"I  want  you  to  take  me  and  my  family  out  in 
your  boat  this  afternoon  I"  he  began  importantly. 

"I'm  not  taking  her  out  to-day,"  said  the  old  man. 

"Tut,  nonsense,  man,"  retorted  the  other.  "I'm 
told  yours  is  the  best  boat  in  the  place." 

"So  she  is.  But  I'm  not  taking  her  out  to-day, 
sir.  I'm  sorry."  He  bowed  with  a  curious  grace 
and  moved  away  along  the  beach  folowed  by  the 
puzzled  glare  of  the  little  man  in  the  blazer. 

"There  will  still  be  Emperors,"  murmured  Peter 
Margett,  "when  all  the  world  is  one  republic." 

The  little  man  in  the  blazer  muttered  something 
about  "confounded  modern  democratic  principles," 
and  started  stumbling  across  the  stones  towards  the 
spot  where  a  group  of  the  younger  fishermen  stood, 
idly  watching  the  bathers  and  calculating  what  this 
summer  season  was  likely  to  produce  in  the  way  of 
compensation  for  spending  the  winter  on  the  same 
beach.  Alison  Margett,  her  damp  hair  hanging 
down  her  back,  suddenly  appeared  before  her 
father. 

"Look  here,  Dad,"  she  began,  briskly^  "we  all 

35 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

want  to  go  for  a  picnic  this  afternoon — that  is,  I 
and  Harold  do,  and  mother  and  Mrs.  Weare  are 
quite  willing — what  do  you  think?" 

"Isn't  a  picnic  rather  strenuous  for  the  first  after- 
noon?" said  her  father. 

"Well,  that's  what  Mrs.  Cutman  says,  but  I've 
just  been  telling  her  it's  only  a  tradition." 

"H'm!"  grunted  Margett,  "and  now  you've  been 
sent  to  see  whether  your  father  will  defy  tradition 
or  not?" 

Alison  laughed.  "It's  hardly  a  tradition,"  she 
said,  "it's  a  sort  of  idea  that's  grown  without  being 
asked!" 

"We'll  go,"  answered  her  father,  lying  back  on 
the  pebbles  lazily.  "You  can  tell  us  where  we  are 
going  at  lunch." 

"Good  egg,"  returned  the  girl,  and  turned  down 
the  beach  to  break  the  news  to  the  three  elder  ladies 
that  there  was  now  no  hope  of  a  reprieve. 

Cutman  dug  his  stick  into  the  stones.  "Weak, 
Peter,  weak!"  he  said.  "You  know  you  don't  want 
to  go  for  an  infernal  picnic — and,  damn  it  all,  this 
is  supposed  to  be  the  wage-earners'  holiday!" 

"You  musn't  call  a  picnic  infernal,  Charles,"  re- 
turned the  Editor.  "It's  as  bad  as  putting  up  the 
notice  that  Ted  Willis  was  talking  about!" 

"Rot!"  said  the  other.  "Here  we  are  lying  in  a 
sort  of  Turkish  bath,  getting  more  enervated  every 
second.  No  wonder  we  don't  feel  too  strenuous !" 

Peter   Margett   laughed   softly.      "Comfortable 

36 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Doctrine,"  he  answered,  "blame  nature.  Truth  is, 
we're  just  at  the  age  when  we  are  always  hoping 
to  get  enthusiastic  about  yesterday's  excitements — 
always  hoping  for  a  miracle !  You  can't  deny  it !" 

There  was  no  answer,  and  the  editor  playfully 
jabbed  his  companion  in  the  ribs. 

"Well,"  said  Cutman,  irritably,  "I'm  not  deny- 
ing it." 

"Once  we  liked  picnics,"  murmured  Peter. 
"Romance,  Adventure — curious  sense  of  I  don't 
know  what — all  really  the  same  idea  though — vague 
notion  that  something  different  might  happen  if  you 
had  your  tea  in  an  unusual  place.  Now  we  know 
that  nothing  unusual  will  ever  happen.  We  don't 
think  of  the  jam  any  longer,  we  think  of  the  wasps 
buzzing  round  it.  Both  points  of  view  equally 
pathetic,  I  suppose." 

"What  the  devil  are  you  talking  about,  Peter?" 
asked  Cutman,  who  had  not  been  listening. 

"It  might  make  an  article,"  said  the  editor. 
"Ah !"  he  broke  off,  "they  are  going  back  to  lunch !" 

They  both  rose  and  went  down  the  beach  to  meet 
the  little  party. 

"I've  been  telling  everybody  it's  a  mistake," 
panted  Emily  Cutman,  a  little  in  advance  of  the 
others  as  they  came  up  the  beach.  "Rushing  at 
things  is  such  a  pity,  don't  you  think?  I  know 
Loveday  agrees  with  me,  if  only  she  would  speak. 
Well,  isn't  it  trying?  I  mean  to  say,  why  were 
tongues  invented?  Harold  is  such  an  overwhelmer; 

37 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

He  brushes  everything  aside.  Charles  used  to  be 
just  the  same,  didn't  you,  Charles?  But  I  don't 
suppose  you  remember.  Why,  when  we  were  en- 
gaged, Mr.  Margett — however,  that's  not  the 
point.  Now,  Charles,"  she  said  finally,  "you  must 
admit  you  don't  agree  at  all!" 

At  this  point  the  others  arrived. 

"Don't  listen,  Mr.  Cutman!"  cried  Alison, 
quickly.  "Don't  listen  to  a  word  of  it  I  The  whole 
thing's  settled!"  She  slid  a  strong  arm  round 
JEmily'.s  shoulders  and  looked  at  her  with  a  kindly 
maternal  smile. 

"Shock  tactics,  Charles,"  said  Loxbury;  "it  is  the 
method  of  the  younger  generation.  We've  got 
to  go!" 

"Why  shouldn't  we  go?"  asked  Cutman,  just  a 
little  too  violently,  "I  should  enjoy  a  picnic  very 
much!" 

Harold  gave  vent  to  an  ironical  cheer. 

"Why  the  devil,"  said  his  father  explosively, 
"should  it  be  taken  for  granted  that  I  shouldn't 
enjoy  it?" 

"Hear!  Hear!"  came  the  hearty  voice  of  the 
doctor. 

"But  Berrilow's  car  only  holds  four,"  said  Emily. 
"And  you  can't  walk,  dear!  It's  nearly  six  miles 
to  Tcstleigh  Bottom  where  they  want  to  go." 

"Can't  walk!"  roared  the  barrister.  "Can't 
walk?  Do  you  think  I'm  a  nonagenarian,  Emily?" 

38 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Charles  and  I  will  walk  together,"  put  in  Mar- 
gett. 

"And  Harold  can  walk  with  me,"  said  Alison. 

"We'll  give  father  half-an-hour's  start,"  sug- 
gested Harold. 

"I  shall  walk  with  you,  Charles,"  said  Weare. 
"Do  us  a  world  of  good  I" 

"And  I,"  remarked  Loxbury,  "will  court  eternal 
shame  by  travelling  in  the  car — but,"  he  added 
softly,  "I  shall  score  heavily  at  breakfast  to-morrow 
morning,  and  I  will  play  the  best  ball  of  the  three 
of  you  afterwards !" 

"Very  well,"  returned  Cutman  doggedly,  "and 
for  half-a-crown  a  hole  I" 

He  finished  the  walk  along  the  asphalt  to  the 
hotel  at  a  considerable  pace  and,  after  lunch,  fought 
down  an  intense  desire  for  sleep.  When  the  car, 
starting  an  hour  later,  caught  up  the  walkers  on  the 
way  to  Testleigh  Bottom,  Charles  Cutman  would 
have  given  a  large  fortune  to  accept  the  proffered 
lift  by  squeezing  in  between  Loxbury  and  the  driver. 
But  a  sense  of  pride,  which  he  himself  knew  to  be 
ridiculous,  forbade  it,  and  he  was  not  in  the  least 
comforted  by  the  suspicion  of  an  ironic  smile  on  the 
lips  of  Loxbury  as  the  car  went  on  in  a  whirl  of 
dust — nor,  indeed,  by  the  inaudible  but  obvious 
volubility  of  Emily  who,  as  her  husband  perfectly 
well  realized,  was  explaining,  quite  sympathetically, 
of  course,  his  more  private  infirmities  to  Joan 
Margett  and  Loveday  Weare.  His  only  consola- 

39 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

tion  was  that  Peter  Margett's  remarks  were  be- 
coming more  snappy  every  moment.  Evidently 
Peter  was  suffering  too.  The  Doctor,  though  he 
wheezed  like  a  leak  in  a  steam-pipe  up  the  hills, 
preserved  a  perfect  good  nature  and  cheeriness. 
Charles  found  himself  regarding  Weare  balefully, 
and  persuading  himself  that  this  behaviour  on  the 
part  of  the  doctor  was  merely  a  blind.  Of  course 
he  must  be  in  a  state  of  misery — carrying  all  that 
weight  .  .  . 

They  turned  into  the  steep  lane  at  the  top  of 
which  lay  the  bracken-carpeted  clearing  beside 
Testleigh  Woods,  which  had  become,  by  tradition, 
the  goal  of  this  particular  expedition.  Here  the  tea 
would  be  laid  out — here  somebody  would  spend 
twenty  minutes  trying  to  make  a  fire  burn  from 
sodden  twigs — here,  finally,  the  methylated  spirit 
stove  would  be  mobilized  amid  laughter  and  dis- 
appointment— and  here,  after  a  fly  and  wasp 
haunted  meal,  they  would  all,  as  a  ritual,  walk 
to  the  edge  of  the  bracken  and  look  across  Wives- 
hampton  and  Cowleigh  and  Daggonsbourne  and 
Northstoke  to  the  grey  pinnacles  over  on  the 
horizon,  which  it  was  a  point  of  honour  with  the 
Londoners  to  describe  as  Tors. 

Moreover,  Cutman's  tired  and  disgusted  brain 
reminded  him,  Emily  would  say:  "That's  the 
moorl"  in  the  particularly  awestruck  whisper 
which  she  would  equally  certainly  use  to  the  sides- 
man in  Church  next  Sunday. 

40 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

At  this  point  in  his  reflections,  Charles  applied 
the  brake  with  a  jerk.  He  was  drifting  into  another 
ridiculous  mood:  absurd!  He  pointed  out  some 
honeysuckle  to  Margett  who  remarked  that  the 
scent  of  honeysuckle  in  a  room  was  overpowering. 
The  doctor,  however,  scrambling  up  the  hedge 
clumsily  and  scratching  his  hands  heedlessly,  pos- 
sessed himself  of  a  sprig  which  he  stuck  jauntily  in 
his  cap.  Margett  sneered  openly. 

"Poor  old  Weare,"  he  said,  "trying  to  pretend 
he's  a  boy  I" 

The  Doctor  scrambled  back  into  the  lane,  not  in 
the  least  put  out. 

"Faith  and  pretence,  my  dear  fact-merchant,"  he 
said,  "are  two  of  the  most  potent  medicines  in  the 
world!" 

As  they  plodded  up  the  stony  lane,  Charles 
Cutman  was  beginning  to  derive  a  real  satisfaction 
from  the  evident  discomfort  of  the  Editor.  Indeed, 
it  is  possible  that  he  would  have  arrived  at  the 
appointed  spot  in  every  bit  as  genial  a  frame  of 
mind  as  Owen  Weare,  save  for  the  fact  that,  about 
five  hundred  yards  from  the  gap  in  the  hedge  be- 
yond which  lay  the  little  clearing,  Harold  and 
Alison,  pink  and  hot,  but  fit  for  another  ten  miles, 
passed  them  exuberantly  and  with  triumph.  More- 
over, Harold,  in  a  mistaken  attempt  to  be  "nice"  to 
his  father,  shouted  over  his  shoulder  as  he  passed: 

"Good  for  you,  Governor — we  only  did  it  on  the 
post!" 

41 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

But  somehow  the  note  in  the  voice,  ;which  showed 
how  very  certain  Harold  had  been  that  he  and 
Alison  would  'do  it' — and  the  sight  of  the  two 
Swinging  arrogantly  through  the  gap  ahead  of 
them — flung  Cutman  back  into  the  state  of  depres- 
sion from  which  the  misery  of  Margett  had  tem- 
porarily lifted  him.  Owen  Weare  had  not  missed 
the  flying  gusts  of  expression  on  his  face. 

"Charles,"  he  puffed,  "you  are  finding  the  art  of 
being  middle-aged  a  very  complicated  affair.  What 
the  devil  are  you  going  to  do  when  you're  old?" 

As  they  turned  through  the  gcp,  Cutman  with  an 
'effort  twisted  his  mind  back  into  a  light  vein. 

"Dry  up,  Owen,"  he  said,  with  the  assumed  note 
'of  a  schoolboy.  "What  about  you?" 

The  Doctor  laughed.  "I?"  he  echoed.  'Why, 
my  dear  Charles,  I  shall  die  like  everyone  else — 
;when  my  heart  fails  I" 

Margett  seemed  to  wake  up  all  of  a  sudden. 

"Good  phrase  I"  he  said  earnestly.  "Snappy  I 
Double  meaning,  with  mixture  of  sentiment,  tool 
'When  does  your  Heart  fail?' —  Short  third 
column  article  I  WTiy  not?"  He  paused  and  turned 
to  Weare.  "Write  it!"  he  said. 

"H'm!"  remarked  Cutman,  gloomily.  "The 
essential  point  is  that  it's  only  necessary  to  keep 
up  one's  heart  when  one  is  fighting  something  or 
other." 

The  Doctor  nodded.  "Quite  right,"  he  said, 
"you  think  you've  come  to  a  point  when  you  simply 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

must  know  about  things,  Charles,  eh?  A  sort  of 
freshman  at  your  second  university.  I'll  not  try  to' 
be  superior,"  he  added  simply.  "It's  a  condition  we, 
all  come  to.  It's  like  influenza,  but  nobody  knows 
the  germ.  I've  felt  the  symptoms  myself — a  sort 
of  damnable  longing  to — 

'hear,  know,  and  say 

What  this  tumultuous  body  now  denies!' 
I  don't  know  who  wrote  that  but  it's  quite  true." 

Charles  Cutman  looked  at  the  doctor  and  nodded. 
Wonderfully  understanding  fellow,  old  Weare! 

The  Editor  was  breathing  very  fast.  It  was  his 
method  of  'pointing'  like  a  retriever. 

"Rupert  Brooke,"  he  said  quickly,  pigeon-holing 
the  doctor's  quotation  from  sheer  force  of  habit. 

Cutman,  wrapt  in  a  haze  of  self-analysis,  snapped 
angrily.  "What  the  devil  difference  docs  that 
make?"  he  asked. 

The  doctor  merely  nodded.  Margett  took  the 
nod  as  an  acknowledgment  of  information  re- 
ceived— Charles  detected  in  it  a  sympathy  for  his 
outburst  against  the  necessity  for  the  universal  label. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Owen  Weare  was,  in  spite  of 
his  bucolic  appearance,  an  exceedingly  diplomatic 
fellow.  He  knew  quite  well  that  it  is  very  difficult 
to  detect  a  bedside  manner,  outside  a  bedroom. 


43 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Harold  and  Alison  enjoyed  the  picnic — not  as 
much  as  they  had  expected  to,  of  course,  but  still, 
they  enjoyed  it.  It  had,  though  neither  of  them 
had  been  morbid  enough  to  work  the  thing  out, 
appeared  rather  like  a  play  which  has  run  for  many 
nights.  Everybody  had  said  the  same  things  that 
had  been  said  at  this  particular  picnic  for  years. 
Loxbury  had  been  mildly  satirical  and  Emily  had 
laughed  protestingly  at  his  cynicisms.  Loveday 
Weare  had,  as  far  as  could  be  remembered,  said 
nothing  at  all  and  Joan  Margett  had  said  things 
unexpected  and  shattering  to  the  commonplace. 

The  last  of  the  meal  had  been  despatched  and  the 
party  had  walked  down  to  the  edge  of  the  gorse 
and  looked  across  the  well  known  and  now  curiously 
uninspiring  view.  Moreover,  according  to  ritual 
Emily  Cutman  had  become  sentimental.  Scenery 
always  caused  her  to  think  violently  about  God,  and 
on  these  occasions  she  had  to  be  dealt  with  tactfully, 
since  thinking  about  God  invariably  brought  her  to 
the  edge  of  tears  and  general  distress.  If,  as  her 
husband,  in  a  fit  of  irritation,  had  once  done,  you 
asked  her  what  on  earth  there  was  to  cry  about  in 
the  beauties  of  nature  and  a  religion  which,  if  it  is 
meant  to  be  anything,  is  meant  to  be  comforting, 
she  would  say  vaguely,  "it  all  seems  so  sad",  and 
relapse  into  an  orgy  of  sniffs,  and  little  sobs,  to  be 

44 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

followed  by  a  violent  sick  headache.  The  only  per- 
son who  appeared  to  understand  this  irritating 
emotion  was,  curiously  enough,  Loveday  Weare, 
whom  no  one,  not  even  her  husband,  ever  remem- 
bered to  have  seen  shed  tears  in  her  life. 

"You  see,"  she  had  once  said  to  Joan,  after  an 
uncomfortable  episode  of  the  kind,  "it  really  is  sad 

.  .  as  Emily  sees  it.  She  wants  to  understand 
why  it's  lovely,  and  she  tries  to  make  out  that  it's 
because  God  made  it.  Then  she  realizes  she  doesn't 
understand  God  either,  and  of  course  she  wants  to 
cry;  it  is  very  unsatisfactory  for  her,  isn't  it?  Still, 
she  cries  and  gets  exhausted  and  forgets  the  scenery 
and  God  because  of  her  headache,  and  so  gets  per- 
fectly all  right  again.  You  and  I  look  on  the  view 
as  probably  the  result  of  an  earthquake  and  Emily's 
tears  as  the  gift  of  God.  The  result  is  we  can't 
cry  and  I  daresay  half  our  lives  are  dreadful  to  us !" 

Joan  Margett  had  nodded  and  answered. 

"When  you  do  speak,  Loveday,  you  come  very 
near  talking  like  limpid  water  running  over  coloured 
stones.  I  love  looking  through  clear  water." 

On  the  present  occasion,  however,  Emily  had 
been  successfully  headed  off  tears  by  Harold's  dis- 
covery that  his  unemptied  pipe  had  set  his  coat  on 
fire.  This  disaster  had  the  advantage  of  making 
her  forget  all  about  God  without  the  distressing 
anaesthetic  of  a  headache,  and  after  prophesying 
disjointedly  any  number  of  soul-curdling  accidents 
to  which  Harold  was  certain  to  fall  a  victim,  she 

45 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

arrived  at  the  spot  where  they  had  eaten  their  tea 
in  a  perfectly  happy  frame  of  mind. 

As  for  Harold  and  Alison,  they  wandered  off  on 
a  walk  of  their  own,  talking  like  a  couple  of  under- 
graduates, of  sport,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness, 
and  colour,  and  line  and  a  million  and  one  things 
which  they  knew  nothing  of,  and  which  are,  of 
course,  the  only  things  worth  arguing  about.  And 
they  ejaculated  'rot'  and  'rubbish'  at  each  other's 
statements  and  walked,  again  like  two  youths,  at 
least  two  yards  apart  all  the  way.  Meanwhile 
Emily  hinted  that  "perhaps  they  saw  something  in 
one  another"  and  "it  wouldn't  be  a  bad  thing,  would 
it?"  and  "it  was  rather  nice,  wasn't  it,  to  see  two 
young  things  falling  in  love  and  going  off  senti- 
mentalizing?" 

At  which  point  she  very  nearly  tumbled  headlong 
into  tears  again  and  warned  Loxbury  very  sternly 
that  "no  one  was  to  dare  to  joke  about  it  in  front  of 
the  dear  children." 

And  the  curious  thing  was,  that  although  this 
picture  of  Heloise  and  Abelard  wandering  hand  in 
hand  through  the  bracken,  wrapt  in  a  rosy  aura  of 
dawning  Romance,  brought  to  birth  by  giant  strides 
in  the  wonderful  scene  set  by  the  stage  manager 
who  built  Devonshire,  was  at  the  furthest  pole  from 
the  truth,  yet,  the  essential  fact  remained  that 
through  the  more  modern  medium  of  refuting  each 
other's  arguments  and  calling  each  other  fools, 
whereby  discovering  that  there  was  something  about 


each  of  them  that  was  worth  criticism,  Harold  and 
Alison  were  actually  falling  in  love. 

But  Cuttnan,  to  whom  the  incidents  of  the  picnic 
had  appeared  amazingly — even  alarmingly — staler 
than  usual,  and  whose  efforts  at  enthusiasm  had  not 
even  succeeded  in  convincing  himself,  now  felt  his 
mood  heavy  upon  him,  and  under  the  plea  that  he 
was  sleepy  and  was  going  to  sit  in  the  shade,  walked 
up  to  the  big  hedge  under  Testlcigh  Woods,  some 
quarter  of  a  mile  away,  and  sitting  under  its  shadow 
and  tilting  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  fell  to  black 
thoughts. 

The  countryside  seemed  so  provokingly,  60 
triumphantly  peaceful.  The  bracken  bent  easily 
and  gracefully  before  a  soft,  caressing  wind.  A 
rabbit,  not  ten  yards  away  from  him,  ran  out  on  the 
grass,  looked  round  enquiringly  and  settled  down 
to  the  evening  meal.  From  the  hedge,  behind  him, 
there  came  a  continuous  gentle  rustle  which  seemed 
the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  a  life  unproblcmatic 
and  unquestioned  in  its  design.  In  the  wood  itself 
there  seemed  the  deep-noted  silence  of  content. 
Were  only  humans  the  butt  and  jesting-point  for  all 
these  hideous  problems  of  existence?  Was  it  pos- 
sible that  Master  Rabbit,  methodically  absorbing 
his  supper,  was  a  prey  to  hideous  doubts  about  his 
love  and  loyalty  to  Mistress  Rabbit,  irritatingly 
asleep  perhaps  beneath  that  very  hedgerow? 
Incredible ! 

And  to  Cutman  at  this  moment,  there  appeared 

47 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

nothing  more  obvious  than  that  the  philosophy  of 
pig-happiness  was  the  most  desirable.  He  sat  very 
still,  unnaturally  still  considering  that  he  was  ex- 
ceptionally wideawake.  His  stillness,  indeed,  was 
akin  to  the  rigidity  of  fear,  for  Charles  was  fighting 
hard  against  a  very  horrible  thought  .  .  .  the 
thought  that  he  hated  Emily,  after  thirty  years. 
He  shut  the  door  violently  against  the  unwelcome 
visitor  but  he  could  not  close  his  ears  to  the  per- 
petual hammering  of  the  door  knocker.  The  very 
presence  of  the  idea — which  he  put  down  frantically 
to  bodily  indispositions  invented  for  the  purpose, 
made  him  feel  an  outcast — someone  whom  dear  old 
Owen  and  bluff  Peter  Margett  would  not  care  to 
associate  with,  did  they  really  know  what  manner 
of  man  he  was.  And  yet  .  .  .  another  start- 
ling idea  .  .  .  did  those  two  also  feel  like  him, 
every  now  and  then?  He  pondered  on  the  thought 
and  dismissed  it,  feeling  more  than  ever  an  outsider. 

A  sound,  slight  enough  in  itself,  but  different 
enough  in  its  character  to  cause  Charles  to  turn  his 
head,  came  from  the  hedge  on  his  left.  Something 
appeared  to  be  agitating  the  leaves  somewhat  too 
violently  for  the  gentle  summer  wind.  Charles 
watched  the  bending  branches  with  interest.  A  fox, 
perhaps  ...  no.  A  fox  would  have  nosed 
him.  Now  what  on  earth  was  coming  through  that 
hedge  so  cautiously? 

Incredibly  without  noise,  or  so  it  seemed  to  the 
town-bred  perceptions  of  the  barrister,  the  figure 

48 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

of  a  man  detached  itself  from  the  thick  hedge  and 
slid  into  the  fern  and  thick  grass  beneath  it.  There 
was  something  familiar  about  the  back  view  which 
Charles  obtained  of  this  apparition.  Not  in  the 
clothes,  for  they  were  really  rather  peculiar.  Navy 
blue  seamen's  trousers  bound  round  below  the  knee 
with  puttees  of  stained  calico,  arranged  in  a  way 
which  might  well  have  caused  the  death  of  a  ser- 
geant-major in  almost  any  regiment.  The  coat 
seemed  unnecessarily  long  and  full — indeed,  on  the 
left  side  it  bulged  right  out  in  an  absolutely 
unaccountable  fashion.  On  the  head  was  the  relic 
of  what  had  been  a  Homburg  hat — crown  and  brim 
stained  by  sweat  and  sun,  and  ribbon  gone  so  many 
years  since,  that  there  remained  not  even  the  lighter 
line  where  it  had  been. 

It  was  the  back  of  a  brown  neck  and  the  beginning 
of  a  head  of  rebellious  white  hair  that  seemed  so 
baffling  in  its  familiarity  and  Charles  was  still  puz- 
zling over  the  problem  when  the  man  turned  sud- 
denly and  caught  sight  of  him. 

"I  should  have  sensed  you,  sir,"  said  the  appari- 
tion, in  soft  liquid  tones.  "Must  be,  I'm  getting 
old." 

"What  the  devil  are  you  doing  out  here,  Willis?" 
asked  Cutman. 

The  fisherman  looked  up  and  down  the  hedge, 
and  his  keen  eyes  seemed  to  search  all  the  points  of 
the  compass.  There  was  no  one  in  sight. 

"Poaching,  sir,"  he  explained  simply.     "It  is  a 

49 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

pity  I  should  have  made  port  just  here,  for  you're  a 
lawyer  and  'tis  your  business  to  misunderstand  a 
poacher.'* 

"I'm  not  in  Chambers,  Willis,"  smiled  the  bar- 
rister. "What  have  you  in  your  pocket?'* 

"A  good  dinner,  sir,"  replied  the  fisherman,  "and 
a  couple  of  rabbits  as  well."  He  hesitated,  as  one 
apologising  for  hunting  small  game.  "There  are 
relations,  sir,"  he  explained,  "with  whom  it  pays 
to  keep  in,  as  it  were." 

Cutman  nodded.  ."There  are  always  relations," 
he  said. 

The  old  man  settled  down  beside  him  on  the 
bank,  carefully  arranging  his  coat  so  that  it  ap- 
peared quite  normal  in  its  proportions. 

"Of  course,"  began  Willis,  "I  might  defend  my 
poaching  in  Lord  Testleigh's  woods  by  talking  to 
you,  sir,  about  socialism  and  the  rights  of  men. 
Indeed,"  he  added  reminiscently,  "I  have  been 
amongst  most  happy  and  respectable  savages  whose 
entire  peace  of  mind  would  have  been  scuppered 
by  the  idea  of  personal  property — that  was  in  the 
Pacific,  sir,"  he  added.  "Perhaps  if  there  had  been 
sufficient  fresh  water  we'd  not  have  cared  so  much 
for  those  savage  chaps  A  }  ^  but  _they^.were 
damned  obliging  to  us,  sir.") 

He  broke  off,  accepting  Cutman's  tobacco  pouch. 

"Still,  I  don't  poach  from  conviction,  sir,"  he 
went  on.  "Lord  Testleigh's  land  belongs  to  Lord 
Testleigh,  and  the  pheasants  and  the  rabbits  in  his 

Sot 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

woods  belong  to  Lord  Testleigh  too,  so  I'm  a 
thief — and  there's  no  defence  for  that,  sir.  In- 
deed," he  added,  "there's  no  defence  for  most  of 
my  life,  if  it  comes  so  far." 

"Nor  mine,"  muttered  Cutman,  remembering  the 
thoughts  about  Emily  which  had  been  knocking  for 
admittance  to  his  mind. 

"But  there's  a  sense  of  adventure  in  the  woods, 
sir,"  the  old  man  continued.  "A  sort  of  making  the 
dying  fire  glow,  if  you  understand  me — even  in  the 
getting  of  a  bird  or  two  and  a  silly  rabbit.  To  a 
lawyer,  sir,  that'll  be  a  poor  enough  defence,  but 
.  ,  .v  when  you're  an  old  man,  you've  got  to  grab 
adventure  where  you  can  find  it." 

Cutman  was  silent,  revolving  the  old  fisherman's 
crystal-clear  immorality  in  his  mind,  comparing  it 
with  the  muddy  morals  of  which  he  had  been  making 
pies  in  his  own  case.,; 

"I'll  not  deny,"  the  gentle  voice  of  Ted  Willis 
broke  in,  "that  sitting  here  by  you  isn't  an  idea  at 
disguise  of  mine — not  that  it  isn't  a  pleasure  and  an 
honour,  sir — but  there  was  a  keeper  chap  away  back 
who  heard  more  than  he  had  need  of,  and  no  one 
could  suspect  you,  sir,"  of  sitting  here  under  the 
hedge,  talking  away  to'a  thief!" 

J'Look  here,  Willis,"  said  Charles  indignantly, 
"you  know  perfectly  well  I  don't  regard  you  as  £ 
thief I"v 

The  old  man  looked  at  him,"smiled,  then  broke 
into  a  little  laugh.  "I'd  rather  you  did,  sir,"  he 

II 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

said,  "and  cared  to  talk  to  me  all  the  same  1" 

"Very  well,  then,"  returned  Charles,  "I  will. 
Why,"  he  added  irritably,  "you  seem  to  regard  me 
as  hopelessly  respectable!" 

He  had  a  wild,  instantly  crushed  desire  to  tell 
Ted  Willis  how  far  divorced  from  respectability  his 
thoughts  had  been,  at  the  moment  of  discovery. 

"Respectable  people,  sir,"  said  the  fisherman 
slowly,  "are  the  salt  of  the  earth,  as  they  call  it. 
Where  would  we  wild  things  be  if  it  weren't  for 
them?"  (It  was  like  Willis,  thought  Cutman,  to 
include  him,  out  of  compliment,  amongst  the  'wild 
things'.)  "Every  man  of  us  who  feels  a  kind  of 
rebel  jumping  inside  him  like  a  child  on  the  way, 
ought  to  go  on  his  knees  and  thank  the  good  God 
for  respectable  folk.  They  are  ...  'he 
hesitated,  searching  for  the  word.  "There's  a  word 
I'm  looking  for,  sir,"  he  went  on,  "something  that 
goes  round  and  round  and  keeps  things  steady,  so 
long  as  it  doesn't  stop  I" 

"Gyroscope?"  queried  Cutman. 

The  old  man  nodded.  "That's  the  word,  sir,"  he 
said.  "Respectable  folk  are  the  gyroscope  for  all 
of  us.  You  see,"  he  added  thoughtfully,  as  he 
pressed  down  the  tobacco  in  his  pipe,  "Lord  Test- 
leigh  and  I  both  rely  on  a  policeman  in  the  end.  He 
feels  comfortable  in  the  notion  that  he's  looked 
after,  and  I  ...  well,  truthfully,  sir,  I'd  not 
get  so  much  zip  out  of  this,  if  I  didn't  know  I  might 
get  locked  up  I" 

52 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

He  paused,  cocking  his  head  sideways  with  a 
movement  quite  startling  in  its  resemblance  to  that 
of  an  animal.  Yet  Charles  had  heard  nothing. 

"That's  the  keeper-fellow,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice.  "He's  tracked  me  down  this  far — 'tis  a 
brainier  chap  than  I'd  reckoned  I"  He  stopped  and 
leant  back  against  the  bank,  his  ear  almost  touching 
the  ground.  Some  seconds  elapsed  in  what  seemed 
to  Cutman  complete  silence.  Then  the  old  man 
raised  his  head  and  chuckled.  "He's  at  fault,"  he 
said,  "he's  gone  away  along.  South,  he's  moving: 
he'll  never  find  the  trail  again  now." 

"I  didn't  hear  a  sound."  Charles  Cutman's  voice 
had  a  ring  of  astonishment  in  it,  which  was  almost 
childish. 

"Ah,  sir,"  returned  the  other,  "you  didn't  have 
to.  You'll  hear,  no  doubt,  many  sounds  in  your  own 
life  which  my  ears  would  be  deaf  to.  That's  nature, 
sir,  don't  you  think?" 

Charles  nodded.  "I  daresay  it  is,"  he  answered, 
"and  I  daresay  one  hears  a  lot  of  sounds  which 
don't  exist." 

Willis  rose  and  took  up  his  stick.  The  note  of 
longing  and  self-persuasion  in  his  companion's  voice 
had  not  escaped  him. 

"There  comes  a  time  in  our  lives,  sir,"  he  said, 
"when  lot's  o'  queer  questions  come  up  over  things 
we've  lived  with  unheeding  for  years.  There's  two 
ways  of  facing  'em,  sir.  You  can  stick  'em  away 
behind  you  and  pretend  you've  forgotten  'em — 

53 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

that's  one  way.  But  it  doesn't  make  it  easier  to 
die  a  man's  death  at  the  end.  Or  you  can  answer 
'em,  sir.  And  that's  kill  or  cure." 

Charles  looked  at  the  old  man,  standing  straight 
and  clean  against  the  sky,  and  felt,  all  of  a  sudden, 
a  complete  intimacy  between  the  two  of  them. 

"Well,  Willis,"  he  asked,  "when  your  time  came, 
what  did  you  do?" 

The  fisherman  smiled  ever  So  slightly.  "I  was  a 
coward,  sir,"  he  returned,  "I've  had  to  keep  'em 
locked  away  ever  since,  an'  persuade  myself  that 
the  keys  got  lost.  But  I'm  thinking  to  myself  I'll 
find  it  under  the  pillow,  the  last  time  I  take  to  my 
bed!" 

"Rot,  Willis,  you're  ho  coward.  Why  did'nt  you 
try  the  other  way?" 

"I  was  a  fool,  sir :  I  wouldn't  gamble  on  a  miracle 
happening!"  he  started  slowly  down  the  hedgerow. 

"He'd  be  a  fool  who  would  gamble  on  a  miracle," 
returned  Cutman,  sourly.  "They  don't  happen." 

The  old  man  turned  sharply.  "Don't  believe 
that,  sir,"  he  said.  "They  do  happen.  They  hap- 
pen almost  whenever  you're  in  real  need  of  'em. 
Yes,  sir,  real  queer  unearthly  miracles  I  Wise  men 
know  that,  sir,  but  the  fools  don't  find  it  out  till 
they  are  old  and  the  time's  gone  past.  I  was  a 
fool!" 

He  took  off  his  stained  shapeless  hat  with  a  care- 
less grace  and  was  fifty  yards  down  the  hedge  before 
Cutman  realized  that  he  wanted  very  much  to  go 

54 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

on  talking.  Then,  as  the  fisherman  took  himself  and 
his  personality  round  a  bend  and  out  of  sight,  the 
barrister  pulled  himself  together  with  a  jerk. 
Queer  superstitions,  these  old  chaps  had!  Really  it 
wouldn't  have  been  very  dignified  to  have  been  dis- 
covered talking  seriously  to  old  Willis !  Confound 
it!  A  little  more  and  he  might  have  been  saying 
things  to  a  fisherman  which  .  .  .  the  mere 
idea  made  Cutman  feel  quite  hot  and  nervous  at  his 
escape.  He  walked  down  towards  the  picnic  party 
again,  bracing  himself  back  into  a  state  of  healthy 
heartiness.  He  found,  on  arrival,  that  everything 
had  been  packed  up  and  that  he  was  generally  sus- 
pected of  having  absented  himself  in  order  to  avoid 
his  share  of  the  labour.  Charles  entered  into  this 
joke,  developed  heavily  by  Peter  Margett,  with  an 
exaggerated  heartiness  which  might  have  told  any 
keen  observer  that  he  found  no  mirth  in  it  himself. 
He  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  pondering  all  the  time 
on  the  extraordinary  freak  of  nature  which  always 
made  holiday-time  the  breeding  ground  for  un- 
pleasant and  upsetting  reflection.  There  was  a  good 
deal  to  be  said  for  having  no  time  for  anything; 
though  this  again  would  come  under  Willis'  defini- 
tion of  cowardice.  And  here  was  Emily  defending 
his  supposed  laziness  by  appealing  on  the  ground 
of  his  age — a  word  she  seemed  to  use  as  synony- 
mous with  'infirmity'.  Loxbury,  with  that  infernally 
cynical  twist  of  the  lips,  which  Cutman  believed  the 
fool  thought  fascinating,  was  proposing  to  give  up 

55 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

his  seat  in  the  car  and  Emily  was  approving  the 
idea.  Maddening! 

"No  I"  he  found  himself  shouting  suddenly.  "I'm 
going  to  walk  home  I  Why  the  devil  not?  I'm 
going  to  walk  home  with  Weare !" 

"Of  course,  d'ear,"  said  Emily,  a  little  alarmed 
at  his  outburst.  "Of  course,  if  you'd  like  to " 

"At  any  rate,"  broke  in  the  voice  of  Loxbury, 
"he'll  be  walking  back  with  a  doctor  1" 

Owen  Weare  smiled  at  him. 

"You're  disgracefully  lazy,  Loxbury,"  he  said, 
"and  disgustingly  selfish.  One  of  these  days  you'll 
get  diabetes,  I  expect.  But  believe  me,  we  couldn't 
bear  to  see  a  picture  like  you  out  of  its  frame,  and 
your  frame  is  wheels  1  As  for  Charles  walking  back 
with  a  doctor,  it's  much  more  likely  to  be  a  case  of 
'physician,  heal  thyself  than  anything  else." 

Peter  Margett  burst  into  the  conversation  with 
a  rush. 

"Loxbury  fell  in  love  with  himself  at  the  age  of 
twenty-two,"  he  snapped,  "and  he's  been  faithful 
ever  since.  Nobody  knows  why.  It's  one  of  those 
inexplicable  things,  like  somebody  else's  marriage." 

"Dear  me,"  said  the  Bachelor,  "what  an  interest- 
ing fellow  I  must  be !  I  wonder  how  long  it  will  be 
before  the  young  people  come  back  and  give  us  leave 
to  start  the  return  journey?"  He  turned  to 
Cutman.  Ah,  Charles,"  he  went  on,  "you've  missed 
our  interesting  speculations  about  Harold  and 
Alison  1" 

56 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

The  soul  of  Charles  surged  within  him. 

"Ye  Gods !"  he  said  bitterly,  "don't  tell  me  you've 
all  been  planning  another  marriage!"  He  could 
have  bitten  the  words  out  of  his  tongue  before  the 
sentence  was  finished,  but  it  was  too  late.  He  rose 
and  walked  down  to  some  gorse  bushes  under  pre- 
tence of  lighting  his  pipe  away  from  the  wind. 

Emily  broke  the  silence. 

"Cream!"  she  whispered  loudly.  "I  saw  him  eat 
two  cut  rounds !  It's  amazing  how  soon  cream 
seems  to  curdle  inside  Charles !" 

Cutman  heard  her  and  cursed  softly.  Owen 
Weare  was  looking  at  him  out  of  the  corner  of  his 
eye.  Joan  Margett  rose  briskly. 

"Let's  carry  the  baskets  back  to  the  car,"  she 
said. 

The  three  men  went  off  with  them,  shepherded  by 
Emily,  full  of  all  manner  of  possible  disasters  to 
jugs  and  cups.  Joan  and  Loveday  were  left  alone. 
The  latter  was  gazing  over  the  bracken  towards  the 
now  hazing  hills  of  North  Devon. 

"Can't  you  feel  it,  Joan?"  she  whispered. 

"Like  a  cyclone  coming  up?"  asked  the  other. 

"Yes — a  cyclone  that's  been  growing  for  years: 
and,  not  only  his !"  Loveday  Weare  jerked  a  finger 
toward's  Cutman's  back. 

"Ours?"  queried  Joan.  Her  companion  bent  her 
head  as  if  to  the  storm  which  was  not  yet  upon  them. 

"Men!"  she  murmured,  half  contemptuous,  half 
caressing.  "Men !  So  obstinately  big  and  so  need- 

57 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

lessly  strong !  And  so  .  .  •  so  pitifully  little  I 
And  they  say  we  don't  know  children  because  we 
have  not  borne  one  1"  She  laughed  softly.  "Well, 
she  added,  "the  storm's  coming.  Their  hands  will 
be  on  the  wheel  and  ours  have  got  to  be  over  them 
.  .  .  or  else  .  .  „" 

"Or  else  .  .  .  ?"  prompted  Joan.  .The 
other  shook  her  head. 

"That  vision's  finished,"  came  the  quaint  answer, 
ad  Loveday  Weare  relapsed  into  the  silence  which 
to  most,  even  of  her  intimates,  wa$  the  label  of  her 
personality. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  car  had  started  back  before  Alison  and 
Harold  had  returned.  Emily  Cutman,  who,  under 
any  other  circumstances  would  have  considered  them 
lost  and  in  some  imminent  danger,  now  being  con- 
vinced that  they  were  engaged  in  falling  in  love 
with  one  another,  apparently  imagined  that,  in  such 
a  case,  Providence  turned  itself  into  a  kind  of  super- 
natural Cook  and  Son,  who  could  be  relied  upon  to 
see  that  they  reached  their  destination  in  safety. 
At  any  rate,  Emily  allowed  herself  to  be  driven 
back  to  Whyticombe  quite  happily,  much  to  the 
surprise  of  Charles  who,  on  the  non-appearance  of 
his  son,  fully  expected  that  he  would  have  to  spend 
half-an-hour  persuading  Emily  that  the  theory  of 
chances  was  against  Harold  being  dead. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  boy  and  girl,  who  'dif- 
fered keenly  on  every  conceivable  topic,  had  drifted 
into  an  argument  which  had  increased  in  bitterness 
and  invective,  until  all  thoughts  of  time  and  place 
had  been  forgotten.  It  appeared  that  Harold  con- 
sidered the  limitation  of  families  to  be  immoral. 
Alison,  whose  method  of  arguing  was  the  extremely 
disconcerting  one  of  firing  off  statistics  like  a  Maxim 
gun,  had  rained  these  intellectual  shells  upon  what 
she  called  his  ".Waterloo  vintage  prejudice." 

59 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Harold  had  found  his  own  arguments  vague  and 
illusory,  though  he  remained  convinced  of  his  point 
of  view,  and  the  result  of  this  was,  inevitably,  that 
he  became  very  angry  with  Alison  and  she  with  him, 
so  that  they  had  passed  the  south  corner  of  Test- 
leigh  Woods  and  were  striding  steadily  in  the  wrong 
direction,  some  ten  miles  from  home,  before  the 
battle  broke  down  from  sheer  exhaustion  and 
Harold  discovered  that  they  did  not  know  in  the 
least  where  they  were. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  suddenly,  "we're  lost!" 

"We  can  go  back  the  same  way,"  answered  the 
girl. 

"Can  you  find  the  woods?" 

Alison  swung  round. 

"Well,  of  course  I  can,"  she  said,  and  stopped. 
"How  absurd,"  she  went  on,  "surely  you  remember 
where  we  turned  off?" 

Harold  shook  his  head. 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea,"  he  returned.  "Con- 
found it  I  How  awkward!  And  it  will  be  getting 
'dark  soon." 

Something  in  his  tone  told  the  girl  that  he  was  not 
merely  afraid  of  the  added  difficulty  of  finding  the 
way  by  night. 

"Good  Heavens,  Harold  I"  she  laughed.  "You 
don't  mean  to  say  that  you're  thinking  of  a  scandal ! 
How  deliciously  comic!  Really,  with  your  ideas 
that  everyone  should  have  millions  of  babies,  and 
that  the  Church's  benediction  is  necessary  before 

60 


two  people  can  be  alone  in  the  dark,  what  will  you 
be  like  in  twenty  years'  time!  About  1921,  I 
suppose!" 

"You're  a  little  idiot,  Alison,"  he  returned  easily, 
"or  you'd  know  that  more  harm  has  been  done  by 
what  people  say  than  will  ever  be  done  by  what 
they  do!" 

"I  doubt  it,"  said  the  girl,  pugnaciously,  "but 
there's  no  time  to  argue.  I  see  I  must  get  you  home 
before  sunset  or  you'll  be  miserable." 

"Funny,"  said  Harold,  with  an  affectation  of  ex- 
treme weariness,  "you've  no  idea  how  tiring  you 
up-to-date  girls  become.  The  strain  of  keeping  up 
your  desperate  characters  is  so  painfully  obvious." 

"All  right,  Wyndham,"  came  the  answer,  "if  this 
is  your  long  speech  of  fatherly  advice :  you  ought,  of 
course,  to  be  doing  it  over  my  shoulder  from  the 
back  of  a  chair,  but,  never  mind,  I'm  ready!"  She 
composed  herself  irritatingly,  as  if  for  a  harangue, 
folding  her  hands  meekly,  and  looking  up  into 
Harold's  face  with  what  was  a  very  good  imitation 
of  the  stage  ingenue's  'sweet  and  trustful'  smile. 
In  spite  of  his  annoyance,  Harold  found  himself 
admiring  her  eyes — not  strictly  beautiful,  of  course 
just  grey  eyes  .  .  .  but  rather  a  nice 
shape;  awfully  honest  .  .  .  fighting  eyes. 
Harold  had  known  Alison  nearly  twenty  years,  but 
he  never  remembered  noticing  the  shape  of  her  eyes. 
Now  there  seemed  something  about  her  quite  new. 
In  the  few  seconds  during  which  he  was  looking 

61 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

down  at  her  mock-meekness,  he  tried  to  find  out 
what  it  was.  No  .  .  .  not  beautiful,  not  even 
pretty — well,  what  was  it?  He  knew  her  character 
well  enough:  'independence' — you  could  almost  de- 
scribe her  in  the  one  word.  But  what  was  it  about 
her  face?  She  seemed  all  of  a  sudden  so  ... 
so  "clean"!  There  she  stood,  an  absolute  monu- 
ment to  fearless  self-reliance,  and  yet  Harold  felt  a 
wave  of  amazing  tenderness  for  her.  How  was  this 
athletic,  statistic-primed  young  creature  able  to  in- 
spire such  an  emotion?  .  .  . 

"Don't  be  an  ass,  Alison,"  he  said,  almost  plead- 
ingly. "We  can't  stand  here  talking  for  ever!" 

"Then  let's  go  on!"  said  the  girl.  "This  lane 
must  lead  somewhere!" 

That  was  like  Alison,  he  thought,  as  tireless  in 
her  optimism  as  she  was  in  her  body.  Rather  a 
wonderful  companion,  really  .  .  . 

His  mind  became  a  turmoil  of  shadowy  ideas, 
exciting  and  frightening.  He  automatically  began 
some  objections  to  taking  this  particular  lane, 
thinking  he  would  cover  in  that  way  the  amazing 
whirlpool  which  had  suddenly  sprung  into  being 
within  him. 

But  he  needn't  have  bothered. 

She  knew.  She  had  seen  that  momentary  startled 
look  in  his  eyes  as  he  had  looked  down  at  her,  a 
fleeting  expression  which  must  have  escaped  anyone 
save  just  her  who  had  inspired  it.  So  that,  when 
he  had  dropped  his  pitiful  pretence  at  normality, 

62 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

and  was  striding  along  beside  her  in  a  silence  utterly 
unlike  anything  which  had  happened  between  them 
before,  she  too  forbore  to  speak  and  indeed,  looking 
up  now  and  again,  and  catching  sight  of  the  strong 
chin  tilted  obstinately  forward  as  if  defying  some 
enemy,  with  the  almost  pathetically  puzzled  eyes, 
contradicting  this  firm  attitude  from  above,  she  too 
felt  a  sudden  tenderness  towards  the  struggling 
Laocoon. 

As  for  Harold,  he  was  now  past  the  first  stage 
when  he  had  tried  to  laugh  these  preposterously 
disturbing  thoughts  out  of  his  mind.  He  no  longer 
denied  to  himself  that  he  wanted  Alison  for  his 
own.  But  .  ,  .  was  this  love?  After  twenty 
years  of  comradeship  to  arrive  like  a  tornado,  in 
twenty  minutes  ?  What  had  they  been  talking  about 
to  bring  on  such  an  attack?  Daylight  saving,  he 
remembered  had  been  one  of  the  subjects — he  had 
been  quite  rude  to  her  about  that.  And  the  limita- 
tion of  the  birth-rate  I  He  cast  a  side-glance  at 
Alison,  but  she  was  striding  along  vigorously,  swish- 
ing her  walking  stick  along  the  hedgerow.  Thank 
God  I  he  thought,  she  had  no  idea  what  was  hap- 
pening I  Perhaps  it  wasn't  quite  real  ...  it 
would  pass. 

His  reflections  came  to  a  sudden  end  when  the 
lane,  which  had  gradually  become  rougher  and 
rougher,  turned  in  a  hairpin  bend  and  ended 
abruptly  in  a  grassy  riding  which  appeared  to  be  the 
entrance  to  a  wood. 

63 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Alison  stopped  swinging  her  stick  and  looked 
round  her.  "That's  done  it,"  she  said  softly. 

"This  is  awful,"  murmured  Harold.  "Look 
here,"  he  went  on,  "we  must  go  back  the  way  we 
came !" 

"That's  absurd,"  answered  the  girl,  "we've 
walked  about  four  miles  down  this  lane  alone — it'll 
take  us  half  the  night  to  get  back  that  way?" 

"Then  what  do  you  propose  to  do?" 

"Go  on  through  the  wood,  of  course.  "I'm  cer- 
tain this  is  the  right  direction!" 

Harold  felt  an  unreasonable  horror  of  entering 
the  wood. 

"It's  getting  dark  already,"  he  said,  feebly. 

"That  doesn't  affect  the  question  of  the  quickest 
way  home,  silly,"  she  smiled. 

"But  you  don't  know  where  this  wood  leads?"  he 
urged. 

"No;  but  I  think  I  do,"  she  answered,  and  smiled 
again  for  some  inexplicable  reason  of  her  own. 

"We  do  at  least  know  something  about  the  other 
way,"  he  put  in,  painfully  aware  that  he  was  giving 
ground  rapidly.  She  turned  suddenly  upon  him. 

"Harold,"  she  said,  "you've  no  sense  of  adven- 
ture :  don't  you  know  that  sometimes  it's  miles  best 
to  try  the  way  you  don't  know?" 

He  laughed  and  turned  away. 

"Come  on,  then,"  he  cried,  with  a  reckless  note  in 
his  voice,  "as  you  say,  it  must  lead  somewhere !" 

"Of  course  it  must,"  she  answered  softly. 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

But  for  all  that,  it  did  not  lead  anywhere  for  a 
very  long  time,  and  after  it  was  quite  dark  and  they 
could  catch  sight  of  a  young  moon  playing  shyly 
about  in  the  tree  tops,  they  were  still  in  what 
appeared  the  thickest  part  of  the  wood. 

Harold  stopped  suddenly. 

"We  must  have  come  miles  and  miles,"  he  said, 
"aren't  you  tired?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"But,  perhaps,"  she  said,  "we  might  sit  down 
and  consider  the  position." 

The  roots  of  an  aged  tree  offered  a  knobby  couch 
of  moss,  and  upon  this  they  sat,  persuaded  into 
silence  by  the  deep  quiet  of  the  woods.  It  was  some 
minutes  later  when  Harold  rose  suddenly. 

"Alison,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  kiss  you." 

"I  want  you  to  kiss  me,  dear,"  she  answered,  and 
stood  up  before  him. 

He  seized  her  hands  and  pulled  her  towards  him 
roughly,  but  he  saw  that  she  was  smiling  to  him. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  he  cried,  "and  we  have  got  to  go 
back  and  live  in  houses !" 

She  laughed  and  pushed  back  his  head,  running 
her  fingers  through  his  hair. 

"Dear  Harold!"  she  said.  "So  modern  we  are, 
and  a  wood  and  a  moon  bring  us  to  this !" 

"I  must  have  loved  you  for  ages,"  he  said 
foolishly,  "and  never  known  it!" 

"I  knew  it,  Harold,"  she  whispered,  "I've  been 
glad  for  ever  so  long!" 

65 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

They  walked  on,  silent,  hand  in  hand.  Suddenly 
the  boy  stopped. 

"But  I  don't  want  to  tell  anybody  I"  he  cried.  "I 
want  our  love  to  be  the  most  private  thing  in  our 
lives  I  I  hate  the  idea  of  a  wedding  and  cards,  and 
presents  I  Religion?  I  call  it  sacrilege  I" 

He  broke  off. 

"I'm  selfish,"  he  added.  "Perhaps  that  is  only 
a  man's  point  of  view." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  answered,  "I  know  what  you  mean: 
it's  pagan — that  part  of  it.  I  shall  hate  it  too." 

"But  of  course  we  must,"  he  murmured,  "we  can't 
upset  our  people." 

"Of  course  not,  dear,"  she  returned.  "It  would 
be  a  beastly  thing  to  do." 

Almost  unconsciously  she  piled  this  new  morality 
upon  the  edifice  which  her  upbringing  had  defined 
as  marriage.  Something  primitive,  something 
infinitely  older  than  two  thousand  years,  caught  up 
her  very  soul,  stripped  it,  and  presented  it  to  the 
man  under  the  silver  trees.  She  turned  to  him,  con- 
scious of  a  fluttering,  delicious  fear.  Something  he 
must  have  read  in  her  eyes,  for  he  stepped  back  a 
pace  as  if,  in  a  picture  gallery,  he  had  come  sud- 
denly upon  a  masterpiece  which  he  had  not  thought 
to  be  there. 

"I  am  yours,  dear  .  .  .  yourg.  Now  and  here 
.  .  .  and,  God  send,  for  ever  .  .  .  but,  I  want 

66 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

you  to  know  .  .  .  now,  and  here  *  ...  if  you 
want." 

Was  it  Alison  speaking?  Alison  Margett,  the 
little  girl  across  the  road,  in  Harold's  Kindergar- 
ten days,  in  Kensington? 

His  brain  seemed  to  beat  like  a  drum :  every  sen- 
sitive fibre  in  his  body  blazed  into  life.  Vaguely  he 
realized  that  his  hands  were  gripping  her  shoulders, 
as  he  heard  her  voice  again. 

"I  want  you  to  know,"  it  insisted.  "I  love  you. 
I  want  to  give  everything  I've  got  .  .  •„  without 
any  qualifications.  Do  you  understand?" 

Breathless,  he  bent  his  head  in  answer. 

"After  to-night,  dear,"  said  the  girl,  "lots  of 
things  will  happen  to  make  this  less  real  .  -  .  . 
congratulations  .  .  .  presents  .  .  .  the  day 
we'll  have  to  go  to  church.  That's  why  I  want  you 
to  know — "  (her  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper)  — 
"you  can  have  all  I've  got  to  give  now  .  .  .  be- 
fore .  .  .  before  it's  really  yours." 

Something  told  him  of  a  tremendous  gift,  thrust 
before  him.  Something  else,  startling  and  unex- 
pected as  the  double  knock  of  a  telegraph  boy,  was 
warning  him  not  to  accept  it.  But  he  himself, 
Harold  Cutman,  seemed  a  long  way  off  ...  a 
shadowy,  unimportant  figure — foolishly  linked  up 
with  other  Cutmans.  The  man  and  the  girl  in  the 
wood  were  quite  different.  The  entire  world  had 
shrunk  into  a  desert  island;  there  were  silver  trees, 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

applauding  silently,  and  everything  was  black  and 
white,  making  life  amazingly  simple. 

"Wonderful  girl,"  he  said,  and  realized  that  his 
voice  was  that  of  a  stranger,  a  stranger  he  wanted 
very  much  to  know. 

All  of  a  sudden  he  felt  her  grow  stiff  to  his  touch. 

"Somebody  is  coming,"  she  said,  then  impulsively 
kissed  him. 

"I'm  glad  this  happened,"  she  added  quickly.  "I 
don't  want  us  ever  to  forget  it,  or  ever  to  talk  of  it." 

Then  she  was  gone  from  him,  sitting  again  on 
the  moss  where  they  had  first  rested.  Every  woman 
but  this,  he  reflected,  would  have  wanted  to  forget. 
But  she  was  strong  and  he  loved  strength.  His  own 
had  called  to  hers;  it  was  wonderful  to  have  had 
such  an  answer.  Then,  travelling  like  a  comet 
through  space,  he  came  to  earth.  Some  one  was 
moving  through  the  wood,  not  ten  yards  away. 
Alison's  voice  reached  him  in  matter-of-fact  tones. 

"We  can  ask  the  way,  now,"  she  was  saying. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  and  then,  suddenly,  catching 
sight  of  the  newcomer,  "by  George,  it's  old  Willis!" 

The  fisherman  was  bringing  his  booty  back  to 
Whyticombe  by  this  circuitous  route:  he  was  not 
quite  satisfied  that  the  keeper  was  altogether  off 
the  trail. 

"Look  here,  Willis,"  said  Harold,  "we  haven't 
the  slightest  idea  where  we  are  I" 

The  old  man  stopped,  startled.  Absorbed  in  his 
own  thoughts,  he  was  meeting  with  the  unusual  ex- 

68 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

perience  of  being  seen  before  he  saw.  His  keen 
eyes  rested  upon  them  for  a  moment;  Harold,  tall 
and  strong,  outlined  against  a  patch  of  silvered  oak, 
Alison  sitting  at  his  feet  with  a  little  smile  playing 
about  her  lips. 

"Oho!"  said  the  fisherman,  all  of  a  sudden,  "the 
mackerel  are  in  the  bay !  Brave  mackerel !  Flying 
after  little  glittering  sprats  they  are;  chasing  their 
happiness  right  up  to  the  shingle.  Brave  mackerel !" 

His  voice,  like  an  actor's,  took  on  a  deeper  tone. 

"But  they  are  running  out  the  boats,  my  fine 
adventurers  I"  he  said.  "They're  hurrying  down  to 
the  water's  edge!  'Ware  nets,  brave  mackerel! 
'Ware  nets!"  He  broke  off  sharply  with  a  sunny 
smile. 

"Excuse  me,  sir,"  he  said,  "I'm  old  and  foolish, 
but  my  eyes  still  serve  me.  I  would  like  to  be  the 
first  to  congratulate  you  both,  and  wish  you  all  the 
luck  the  round  world  holds — and  that's  a  deal  for 
lovers,  miss!" 

Harold,  too  astonished  by  the  fisherman's  powers 
of  perception  to  answer,  stood  staring.  But  Alison 
smiled  quite  naturally  at  the  old  man  and  nodded. 

"Thank  you!"  she  said,  adding  with  another 
smile:  "and  we'll  look  out  for  the  nets!" 

"But  how  the  devil  did  you  know?"  asked  Harold. 

Ted  Willis  shook  his  head. 

"I  can't  tell  you,  sir,"  he  answered.  "I  just  know. 
'Tis  a  miracle,  perhaps — for  I  believe  in  miracles, 
sir,"  he  added  apologetically. 

69  < 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Alison  laughed. 

"It's  not  necessary  to  believe  in  miracles  to  ex- 
plain it,"  she  said,  "the  fact  is  you're  a  very  clever 
fellow,  Mr.  Willis  I"  She  rose,  shaking  the  moss 
off  her  skirts,  and  slipped  an  arm  through  Harold's. 

The  old  man  gave  her  a  mock  bow. 

"  'Tis  kind  of  you  to  say  so,  Miss,"  he  returned, 
"but  if  I  am  clever,  it's  because  I  believe  in  miracles. 
On  my  word,  miss,  I  think  it  takes  a  wise  man  to 
do  that." 

She  smiled  again. 

"We've  made  our  own  miracle,"  she  said,  stoutly, 
and  Harold  held  her  arm  closer. 

The  fisherman  bowed  again. 

"The  road  to  Whyticombe  lies  straight  on,"  he 
said,  "and  to  the  left  when  you  leave  the  wood; 
you  can't  miss  that  road,  miss." 

"Can  I  miss  the  other?"  she  laughed.  "Doesn't 
that  lie  straight  on  too?" 

He  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke  from  his  lips. 

"Indeed  it  does,"  he  answered,  "but  it's  a  longer 
tramp  than  Whyticombe — and  there's  nothing  so 
tiring  on  a  long  tramp  than  a  straight  road  all  the 
way." 

The  swish  of  leaves  and  the  crack  of  twigs  be- 
came silent  as  the  old  man  went  on  his  way. 

Harold  sighed. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  "that  we  must  go  home." 

She  nodded. 

70 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Your  mother  will  think  we  arc  dead,"  she 
answered,  as  they  started  along  the  little  path. 

"I  say,"  said  Harold,  possessed  of  a  sudden  shy- 
ness, "do  you  think  everybody  will  spot  us,  like  old 
Willis?" 

"No,"  she  said,  'we  aren't  very  obvious:  and  I 
don't  think  there  is  anyone  else  like  Willis." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  some  time,  then  he 
stopped. 

"Alison,"  he  said  awkwardly,  "I  want  to  say 
.  .  about  what  you  said  before  Willis  came, 
you  know  ...  I  want  to  tell  you  ...  I  think 
that's  wonderful.  I  feel  somehow  in  the  end  it's 
going  to  make  all  the  difference  .  .  .  that  having 
happened." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "it  makes  our  love  inde- 
pendent. I  wanted  you  to  know  that.  And  now, 
Harold,"  she  added  briskly,  "I  don't  want  ever  to 
talk  about  that  again.  There'll  be  no  reason  to 
talk  about  it  because  it  will  always  be  there.  Do 
you  understand?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  understand." 

"What  we've  got  to  do  now,"  she  said,  whipping 
some  fallen  leaves  with  the  crook  of  her  stick,  "is 
to  put  up  with  being  properly  engaged,  and  listening 
to  coughs  before  doors  are  opened,  and  being  kind 
of  pitied  and  envied  at  the  same  time,  and  all  the 
general  discomforts  of  mating." 

"It  sounds  like  a  Litany,"  laughed  Harold. 

"It  is  a  sort  of  Litany,"  she  returned.    "Beastly: 

71 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

but  I  suppose  all  Church  services  are  a  sort  of  pen- 
ance for  daring  to  be  happy  1" 

"Ah!"  he  said,  "then  you  are  happy?" 

"So  happy,"  she  answered,  "that  I  will  put  up 
even  with  orange  blossom  and  a  wedding  cake !" 

They  had  come  out  of  the  wood  and  had  turned 
to  the  left  up  a  steep  lane. 

"Shall  we  tell  them  to-night?"  asked  Harold,  as 
they  caught  sight  of  the  lights  of  Whyticombe 
below. 

"We'll  tell  your  mother  to-night,"  said  the  girl 

"No  one  else?" 

"No,"  she  returned,  "we  will  tell  her  to-night, 
and  we  will  tell  her  that  no  one  else  is  to  know  until 
to-morrow!" 

"But  why,  dear?"  he  asked. 

"Because,  Harold,  to  know  that  she  is  the  only 
one  will  give  your  mother  the  most  ecstatic  dreams 
she  has  had  for  years.  Well,  won't  it?" 

"Dear  old  Mums,  I  believe  it  will,"  he  said,  and 
then  stopped. 

"But,  look  here,"  he  added,  "what  about  your 
mother." 

Alison  smiled. 

"My  mother,"  she  said,  "is  rather  a  wonderful 
person.  She's  almost  exactly  like  me  I" 

The  lane  curved  suddenly  and  the  lights  of  cot- 
tages appeared  over  the  hedgerows.  They  had 
reached  the  outskirts  of  Whyticombe.  Harold 
stopped  and  suddenly  swung  her  round  to  him. 

72 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"One  more,  dearest,"  he  said,  'one  more  wood 
kiss  .  .  .  we're  not  going  to  be  allowed  another 
until  we  have  learnt  to  forget  the  wedding !" 

"Splendid  man,"  she  whispered,  her  lips  to  his. 

"Splendid  girl,"  he  whispered  back.  His  eyes 
and  hers  were  closed:  his  fingers  played  about  her 
face.  That  was  their  wooing.  .  .  . 

They  were  arguing  about  the  limitation  of  the 
birth-rate  once  more,  as  they  walked  down  the  main 
street  to  the  Hotel  upon  the  front.  By  the  light  of 
a  chemist's  window  Alison  patted  her  hair  into  order 
again.  They  were  greeted  at  the  door  with  chaff 
and  relief — and  Harold,  marvelling  somewhat  at 
himself,  accepted  the  offer  of  a  game  of  billiards 
with  Loxbury  before  going  to  bed. 

But  Alison,  on  her  way  to  her  room,  spent  a  few 
minutes  with  Emily,  who  was  in  bed,  but  who  sat 
up  suddenly  at  her  news  and  held  her  hands  and 
cried  a  little,  saying  that  she  was  very  happy.  And 
fancy  her  being  the  first  to  know!  And  she  won- 
dered why  Alison  wasn't  crying  herself.  But  of 
course  "everyone  was  different",  and  "Good-night, 
dear  child — good-night!"  And  she  was  so  thank- 
ful .  .  .  and  Harold  had  always  been  a  good 
son  .  .  ." 

Whereupon  more  tears,  and  Alison  left  her  to 
her  ecstacy. 

As  Emily  dropped  off  to  sleep  she  murmured: 
"Dear  child,  dear  child  «,  „  *  So  funny  ,  C  » 

73 


WHEBE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

she  never  cried  once  .  .  .  !  But  the  modern 
girl  has  no  passion." 

"What's  that,  dear?"  asked  Charles,  appearing 
from  the  dressing  room  in  his  pyjamas. 

But  Emily  was  determined  to  hug  her  twelve 
hours'  secret  to  herself. 

"It's  nothing,  Charles,  darling,"  she  said,  and 
kissed  him  good-night  more  strenuously  than  she 
had  for  years. 

Charles  noticed  this  and  misinterpreted  it.  He 
turned  out  the  light  and  found  her  hand  in  the  bed. 

"You  rotten  cad,"  he  murmured  to  himself. 
"She's  guessed  something." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Everyone  was  delighted.  The  head  waiter,  a 
pale  yellow-looking  man,  whose  wife  had  long  ago 
run  away  from  his  persistent  cruelty,  congratulated 
the  young  couple,  with  real  sentiment  in  his  watery 
grey  eyes.  When  the  news  of  the  engagement 
reached  the  kitchen,  the  cook,  whose  mother,  a  frail 
old  lady,  had  to  all  intents  and  purposes  been  killed 
by  the  behaviour  of  her  son-in-law,  was  so  moved  by 
the  romance  having  taken  place  "upon  the  very 
doorstep",  that  she  sent  up  to  ask  what  special  dish 
she  might  devise  for  the  "  'appy  couple"  on  the  first 
night  of  their  engagement. 

Such  is  the  magic  of  love.  Loxbury  decided  upon 
angels  on  horseback,  and  then,  discovering  that  it 
was  August,  fell  back  upon  a  buck  rarebit  with 
Worcester  sauce  on  the  egg,  a  savoury  of  which  he 
was  particularly  fond  after  drinking  champagne. 
And  he  suspected  that  champagne  would  be  drunk 
upon  so  wonderful  a  day. 

In  the  general  emotion,  no  one  noticed  that  it  had 
been  the  bachelor  who  decided  upon  the  dish, 
though,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  upon  reflection  later  on, 
this  was  found  to  be  rather  a  pointer  to  the  whole 
situation.  Indeed,  it  very  soon  appeared  that 
Romance,  in  the  accepted  bill-and-coo  and  "hush  I 

75 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

leave  'em  alone"  sense  was  completely  absent  in  the 
engagement  of  Harold  and  Alison.  They  seemed 
neither  excited  nor  embarrassed  and,  since  there 
could  be  no  ulterior  motive  for  marriage  on  either 
side,  this  soon  appeared  to  their  elders  a  state  of 
of  affairs,  not  only  peculiar,  but  almost  alarming. 

"And  what  are  we  going  to  do  this  morning?" 
asked  Emily.  She  said  it  with  a  faint  stress  upon 
the  "we,"  indicating  that  the  older  people  could  not 
now  expect  the  company  of  the  young.  "We  are 
going  on  the  beach,  as  usual,"  said  Alison  firmly. 
"We  don't  want  any  nonsense,  dear,  Harold  and  1 1" 

Joan  Margett  suddenly  made  one  of  her  quick 
curious  gestures;  as  if  she  was  pushing  something 
away  with  her  hands.  "No  nonsense,"  she  echoed, 
and  then  quaintly,  "Queer  children !  I  wonder  what 
they're  going  to  live  on !" 

It  happened  that  Alison's  estimate  of  her  mother1 
was  not  altogether  accurate.  As  for  Emily,  she 
wished  to  write  letters;  she  took  a  pleasure  in  in- 
forming every  possible  relation  of  the  engagement, 
almost  as  if,  in  its  achievement,  she  had  done  some- 
thing rather  wonderful  herself.  The  men  had  gone 
to  the  golf  links,  Harold  with  them.  Though  he 
was  as  firm  as  Alison  in  his  detestation  of  the  bill- 
and-coo  atmosphere,  he  would  nevertheless  have 
preferred  a  morning  on  the  beach  with  her.  But  she 
had  said,  "You  need  the  exercise,  Harold  I"  firmly, 
and  with  a  note  of  possession  in  her  voice  which  had' 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

given  him  a  curious  feeling  of  importance.  So  he 
had  gone. 

Loveday  and  Joan  sat  by  the  water's  edge,  watch- 
ing Alison  swimming  about  the  diving-board  some 
fifty  yards  out.  She  swam  strongly,  seeming  about 
to  treat  the  sea  with  disdain,  throwing  up  her  head 
now  and  again,  to  fling  the  water  from  her  hair. 

"I  begged  Alison  for  years  to  wear  a  bathing 
cap,"  said  her  mother.  "I  know  the  salt  makes 
the  hair  brittle,  but  she  won't.  She  says  it  is  im- 
possible that  there  should  be  anything  unhealthy  in 
nature." 

"I  think,"  said  Loveday,  "that  Alison  has  a  sort 
of  passion  for  strength." 

The  other  nodded.  "Yes,"  she  returned,  "Peter 
is  like  that.  He  cannot  understand  bad  work.  I 
mean  in  his  business  you  know.  Yet  any  number  of 
people  write  badly,  with  their  whole  souls." 

"Of  course  they  do!"  said  Loveday,  "One  can 
suffer  every  bit  as  much,  just  because  one  doesn't 
know  it's  bad." 

"But  he  can't  stand  it." 

"Peter?" 

"Yes.  I've  seen  him  angry  with  a  manuscript, 
just  as  if  it  was  a  person."  "An  inefficient  person." 
Joan  took  up  her  knitting.  "Yes,  and  yet  it  isn't 
that  he  has  no  sympathy.  If  the  man  who  wrote  it 
was  starving  he'd  give  him  anything.  Only — he 
just  doesn't  understand  weakness.  I  think  Alison 
hag  that  in  her  nature,  too." 

77 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Loveday  Weare  broke  a  long  silence  with  a  little 
laugh.  "Oh,"  she  said,  "all  the  keys  to  Life's  strong 
boxes  are  hidden  from  us.  I  would  have  loved  to 
have  seen  their  wooing!" 

Her  companion  laughed  too.  "What  queer  old- 
fashioned  words  you  use,  Loveday,"  she  said.  "I 
wonder  how  many  people  use  the  word  'wooing'  in 
their  lives  I" 

"Well,"  returned  Loveday,  "I've  an  old- 
fashioned  name  and,  perhaps,  I  use  odd  words  be- 
cause I  use  so  very  few." 

"Ah,  then,"  said  the  other,  almost  to  herself. 
"You  do  do  it  on  purpose  after  all!" 

"Do  what,  Joan?" 

"Hold  your  tongue." 

The  other  hesitated  for  a  moment  before  answer- 
ing. An  expression,  almost  of  fear,  had  crept  into 
her  eyes.  But,  apparently  she  fought  it  back,  for 
the  two  aquamarines  grew  cold  again,  and  her 
voice  was  quite  level.  "Yes.  I  found  I  had  to  when 
I  was  quite  a  girl.'* 

"Why,  dear?"  Joan  Margett  laid  down  her 
work  and  looked  at  her  friend  intently.  Loveday 
was,  and  had  been  for  years,  a  kind  of  accepted 
mystery.  Was  she  now  to  be  let  into  the  secret? 
"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  rejoined  Loveday  lightly. 
"Perhaps  I  discovered  that  almost  everything  I  said 
seemed  to  upset  people,  and  I  didn't  know  why.  I 
can't  believe  it's  right  to  upset  people  without  know- 
ing the  reason." 

78 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Joan  took  her  hand  suddenly.  "You're  wonder- 
fully level-headed  and  wise,  Loveday,"  she  said,  "I 
wish  you'd  had  a  child."  "I  think  I'd  have  been 
afraid  to  tell  it  things.  I  hate  responsibility."  She 
paused.  "Owen  wanted  one  ...  I  don't  think 
he  knew  why  .  .  .  but  he  did  want  one.  He  has 
been  awfully  kind  about  it."  She  smiled  queerly, 
crookedly.  "I  think,"  said  Joan,  'that  Dr.  Weare 
is  one  of  the  kindest  and  most  understanding  men 
I  know." 

Loveday  nodded,  but  her  hands,  clasped  round 
her  knee,  tightened.  Her  eyes  grew  suddenly  steel- 
blue,  and  she  seemed  to  be  looking  away  beyond 
the  horizon,  into  something  even  more  eternal. 
Joan,  quick  to  perceive,  saw  the  change  in  her  friend, 
though,  so  slight  were  the  signs,  that  few  would 
have  noticed  it.  "I  think,"  Loveday  was  saying,  in 
a  whisper,  "I  think  that  Owen  rather  enjoys  being 
kind  about  it." 

So  there  were  unsounded  depths,  Joan  thought, 
even  in  bluff  Owen  Weare;  well,  she  might  have 
known  it.  There  are  few  things  so  deceptive  as  the 
happiness  of  other  people.  Loveday  suddenly 
stretched  out  her  arms  like  a  sleeper  slipping  back 
to  rest,  after  a  bad  dream.  She  lay  down  again 
on  the  pebbles  and  Joan  realized  that  she  was  not 
meant  to  have  heard  that  whisper. 

"Here  comes  Alison,"  she  said,  "she's  back  in 
her  depth,  and  is  walking  out.  Not  a  bit  like 
Venus  rising  from  the  sea!"  she  added,  laughing. 

79 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"She  doesn't  mind  about  that,"  returned  the  other. 
Joan  sighed.  "Well,"  she  murmured,  "if  you  are 
not  a  great  beauty,  I  suppose  it's  best  not  to  care." 

Loveday  Weare  watched  the  girl  coming  out  of 
the  sea,  unembarrassed,  triumphantly  mistress  of 
herself.  "I  wonder,"  she  said,  "whether  it's  best 
not  to  care."  Alison  flung  herself  down  beside 
them,  her  dark  blue  bathing  tights  glistening  in  the 
sun.  "Really  Alison,"  said  her  mother,  "you  throw 
yourself  down  on  the  stones  just  as  if  you  were  a 
sack  of  flour!"  Alison  laughed.  "That's  alright, 
mother,"  she  answered,  "I  don't  get  hurt."  Love- 
day  Weare  smiled  to  her.  "It's  a  wonderful 
thing — being  engaged,"  she  said,  "it's  really  a 
moment  to  snatch  at,  and — and  pigeon-hole.  Like 
seeing  mountains  for  the  first  time — or  realising 
what  St.  Paul's  would  look  like  if  Ludgate  Hill  was 
just  a  green  hill  far  away.  All  those  feelings  ought 
to  be  pigeon-holed,  don't  you  think?"  Alison  drew 
over  her  shoulders  a  dressing-gown  of  blue  towel- 
ling. "Why?"  she  asked.  "For  the  same  reason," 
said  the  other,  "as  everything  else  is  pigeon-holed; 
for  reference."  The  girl  smiled.  "That's  horribly 
cryptic,  Mrs.  Weare,"  she  said,  "But  you  know,  I 
doubt  whether  one's  elders  ever  give  one  credit  for 
learning  from  their  mistakes,  and  of  course  one's 
parents  are  never  allowed  to  make  any.  That  must 
be  one  of  the  hardest  things  about  having  children, 
don't  you  think?" 

She  moved  up  the  beach  towards  her  tent,  and 

80 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

her  mother,  from  following  her  with  her  eyes, 
turned  to  Loveday.  "Now  what  do  you  imagine 
she  meant  by  that?"  asked  Mrs.  Margett.  "After 
all,"  returned  the  other  slowly,  "you  and  I  felt 
the  cyclone  coming  up,  didn't  we?"  Joan  nodded, 
a  little  breathless.  "At  the  picnic,"  she  murmured. 
"The  cyclone  that's  been  growing  for  years;  you 
called  it."  "Well,"  said  Loveday,  "why  shouldn't 
Alison  have  felt  it,  too?" 

The  idea  shocked  the  mother;  revolted  her  like 
a  monstrosity.  "But  children,"  she  cried,  "children 
can't  range  so  far!"  She  flung  her  arms  out  again, 
with  a  gesture  full  of  horror.  Loveday  was  laugh- 
ing softly  to  herself.  "Children!"  she  purred. 
"Children!  It's  not  a  word  Joan  that  means  the 
same  as  daughter  or  son.  Some  babies  are  never 
children!"  The  other  leant  across  to  her.  "Ah," 
she  said,  "but  you  don't  know,  Loveday  .  .  .  they 
cling  to  you  .  .  .  they  explore  your  body  with 
their  mouths  .  .  .  you  are  everything,  their  life, 
their  food,  their  whole  wealth;  oh  yes,  they  are  all 
children  once." 

"I've  not  seen  that,"  answered  Loveday,  "I've 
only  known  them  when  they  are  grown  up.  Still,  I 
can  understand  that  it  is  difficult  to  realize  that  your 
child  knows  more  than  you  do."  "But,  Loveday, 
it's  a  horrible  ...  a  tormenting  idea,  that 
Alison  should  think  .  ,  .  think  ..."  she  broke 
off,  deeply  moved.  "Dear  Joan,"  said  her  com- 
panion, "I  suppose  it  is.  But — "  she  stopped  sud- 

81 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

denly.  "I  don't  believe,"  began  the  other  in  a  low 
voice,  "I  don't  believe  even  Peter  knows." 

Loveday  rose  suddenly.  "Uh,"  she  said  sud- 
denly, "we  are  operating  on  ourselves.  We  don't 
want  to  show  each  other  our  insides.  We  shall  only 
lose  faith.  It's  my  fault.  I'm  sorry."  She  walked 
down  to  the  water's  edge,  and  threw  in  a  stone, 
watching  the  ripples  circling  further  and  further 
away  until  they  were  lost. 

Joan  Margett  turned  suddenly,  and  looked  away 
across  the  curve  of  beach  to  the  green  of  the  cliff, 
which  rolled  up  on  the  other  side  of  the  little  bay. 
She  could  see,  just  above  the  thick  woods  at  its  base, 
that  little  patch  of  darker  green,  the  pit,  which,  as 
she  gathered  from  Peter,  "was  the  deuce  of  a  place 
to  get  out  of."  Somewhere  or  other  up  there,  was 
Peter  himself,  intent  upon  hitting  a  ball.  "Oh, 
Peter  .  .  .  dear  kind  prejudiced  old  Peter, — 
(her  mind  slipped  back  through  years,  and  told  her 
that  he  was  dear  and  kind  .  .  .  )  Peter  could 
know  nothing  of  this.  Indeed,  was  there  anything 
to  know?  .  .  .  Oh,  was  there ?" 

Turning,  she  saw  again,  the  figure  at  the  water's 
edge.  Loveday  was  still  throwing  stones. 

She  remembered  how,  at  the  picnic,  this  strange 
woman  had  seen  the  coming  of  the  cyclone;  sensed 
it,  apparently,  in  the  sulky  mood  of  Charles  Cutman. 

"The  storm  is  coming,"  she  had  said,  and  Joan 
remembered  that  she  had  understood  at  once,  what 
was  meant.  Yet  how  could  she  have  understood, 

82 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

unless  .  .  .  unless  .  .  .  ?  Desperately,  as 
a  hunted  beast,  she  looked  back,  and  around  her, 
seeking  cover,  digging  out  every  instance  she  could 
call  to  mind  of  Peter's  kindness,  Peter's  understand- 
ing. "It's  a  wonderful  thing  being  engaged;  a 
moment  to  snatch  at."  That  was  what  Loveday 
had  said.  "But  it  isn't  all  gone,"  she  almost  cried 
the  words  aloud.  "Oh  it  isn't  all  gone !"  Most  of 
all,  beating  like  an  insistent  pain  in  her  mind,  was 
the  idea  that  her  child  could  know  nothing  of  these 
possibilities.  In  the  big  world,  perhaps,  but  in  her 
mother's  own  private  world  it  seemed  indecent. 

And  Alison,  she  reflected,  with  a  sad  little  smile 
quivering  on  her  lips — Alison  was  just  the  girl  to 
guess  at  a  thing  like  that.  She  had  not  been  a  baby 
for  very  long.  Suddenly  she  braced  herself,  taking 
a  quick  resolution.  She  walked  down  the  beach  and 
took  Mrs.  Weare  by  the  arm.  "Loveday,"  she 
said  firmly,  "I  want  to  forget  what  we  have  been 
saying.  These  things  are  only  half-true — less  than 
half.  We'd  realize  that  soon  enough,  if  one  of 
them  was  brought  back  to  us  dead!"  She  waved 
her  hand  towards  the  links.  "We're  simply  breed- 
ing horrible  ideas  by  talking  that  kind  of  heresy! 
So  I've  forgotten!"  Loveday  nodded  slowly. 
"Very  well,  Joan,"  she  said,  "That's  certainly  one 
of  the  ways  of  dealing  with  it.  It's  the  same  idea, 
I  suppose,  that  makes  it  bad  form  to  say  'Hell'  in 
public."  "It  isn't  that  at  all,"  answered  her  friend, 
"it  is  that  I  really  and  sincerely  believe  there's 

83 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

nothing  there  at  all.  Only  if  you  talk  enough  about 
anything  .  .  ."  her  voice  trailed  off. 

"Alright,  dear,"  said  the  other.  Her  thin  lips 
closed  tightly;  her  habitual  expression.  But  Joan 
Margett  was  much  too  observant  a  woman  to  miss 
the  sign. 

"No,  no,  Loveday,"  she  said.  "I  won't  have 
that.  You  have  shut  yourself  away  again!  You 
think  you've  said  something  to  upset  me.  I  know 
the  feeling  welll  But  I'm  not  a  bit  upset.  It's 
simply  .  .  .  simply  that  I  haven't  got  a  sad 
nature!"  "I'm  so  glad,"  said  Loveday,  "I'd  like 
to  be  gay,  too,  but  I  never  have  been.  Something 
always  seems  to  be  pulling  me  back.  It's  queer,  isn't 
it?"  "I  don't  understand,"  said  Joan.  "Nor  I ;  one 
has  to  put  up  with  oneself  I"  She  broke  off,  as  the 
red  sail  of  a  fishing  boat  crept  out  from  behind  the 
cliff.  Alison  had  come  up  behind  them.  "That's 
old  Willis'  boat,"  she  said,  "Harold's  going  fishing 
with  him  this  afternoon."  "Good  Heavens,  Alison," 
said  Mrs.  Weare,  "how  on  earth  can  you  tell? 
What  good  eyes  you've  got!"  Alison  laughed. 
"I  can  read  her  name,"  she  said,  "Yes,  I  think  I  can 
see  pretty  well."  "Alison,"  said  her  mother,  "you 
said  that  in  a  thoroughly  smug  and  horrible  wayl" 
"Did  I  ?"  answered  the  girl,  "I  didn't  mean  to.  But 
one  feels  so  offensively  fit,  just  after  a  bath."  She 
took  a  rock  cake  out  of  a  paper  bag,  and  bit  it.  "I'm 
going  fishing,  too,"  she  said.  "Oh,  well,  dear," 
laughed  her  mother,  "everyone  to  his  taste!  Per- 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

sonally  I  simply  can't  stand  bait.  Your  father  used 
to  take  me  fishing  here,  when  you  were  a  toddler. 
He  said  everyone  ought  to  learn  to  stand  bait.  But 
he  gave  it  up  in  the  end,  and  I  used  to  watch  from 
the  beach."  "Why  did  he  give  it  up?"  asked  the 
girl. 

Loveday  looked  at  her  quickly.  What  a  typical 
question  for  Alison  to  ask?  "Oh,  he  found  I  was  a 
nuisance  in  the  boat.  I  simply  couldn't  learn  not 
to  tuck  my  skirts  round  my  feet  when  the  fish  came 
over  the  side,  and  one  day,"  she  chuckled  at  the 
remembrance  of  it — "One  day  Peter  caught  a 
conger,  and  got  all  mixed  up  in  it — and  the  fisher- 
man went  to  help  him,  and  got  a  hook  in  his  thumb, 
and  they  kept  shouting  to  me  to  do  things  which  I 
didn't  understand,  but  I  tried — and  pulled  some- 
thing, and  then  a  lot  of  water  came  into  the  boat, 
and  we  were  all  soaked!  And  it  revived  the  eel  a 
bit  too,  I'm  afraid.  Anyway,  both  the  men  forgot 
there  was  a  lady  in  the  boat,  and  although  I  was 
so  wet  and  uncomfortable  I  did  enjoy  listening  to 
them.  It  was  really  vivid  .  .  .  vivid  like  colour, 
I  mean  like  a  picture  full  of  movement,  done  in  reds 
and  orange !" 

She  laughed  again  merrily.  "Your  father  was 
fearfully  upset  about  it  afterwards.  He  seemed 
to  think  he  had  behaved  very  badly."  Alison 
laughed  too. 

"Did  he  want  to  buy  you  something?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  he  did.     I  forget  what  it  was;  but  some- 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

thing  horribly  extravagant."  She  broke  off  sud- 
denly. "But  how  on  earth  did  you  guess  that, 
Alison?"  she  said. 

"I  don't  know.  When  men  have  behaved  badly, 
I  thought  they  always  wanted  to  buy  vou  some- 
thing." 

"Oh,  well,"  sighed  Mrs.  Margett,  "Yes;  I  dare- 
Say  it's  their  usual  idea.  Anyway,  I  was  never  asked 
to  go  fishing  again." 

Somehow,  Alison's  remark  seemed  to  have  taken 
the  gaiety  out  of  her.  "I  must  get  back,"  said  her 
daughter,  "I  promised  to  meet  Harold  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  lane,  and  walk  to  the  hotel  with  him." 

"We'll  all  go  back,"  said  Loveday,  "It's  too  hot 
under  this  cliff  at  midday.  It  makes  me  feel  limp 
all  the  afternoon." 

By  the  time  they  arrived  at  the  end  of  the  asphalt 
Ted  Willis  had  beached  his  boat,  and  was  coming 
up  the  shingle,  a  string  of  fish  in  his  hand.  Alison 
ran  down  to  meet  him.  "What  time  do  we  start 
this  afternoon?"  she  asked. 

"A  quarter  past  two,  Miss,"  answered  the  old 
man. 

"There  are  plenty  of  fish  in  the  bay,  and  it'll  be  a 
fine  afternoon;  thought  I'd  bring  a  wrap,  Miss.  It 
turns  cold  on  the  water  a  bit  early."  He  saluted  the 
two  elder  women,  and  disappeared  up  the  street. 

"Do  you  ever  feel  instinctively  that  you  can  lean 
on  some  people?"  asked  Loveday.  "I  feel  that 
about  old  Willis!" 

86 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Why  on  earth  should  you  want  to  lean  on  poor 
old  Willis,  Mrs.  Weare?"  laughed  Alison.  Love- 
day  laughed  too.  "I  didn't  say  I  wanted  to,"  she 
answered,  "Besides,  he  wouldn't  let  me.  He  has  far 
too  much  dignity!" 

Alison  left  them  at  the  hotel,  and  walked  along 
the  station  road,  and  over  the  bridge  which  spans 
the  mouth  of  the  river,  and  which  is  surprisingly 
imposing  to  look  upon,  for  so  small  a  town.  Harold 
was  just  coming  out  of  the  steep,  hedge-shadowed 
lane  which  led  up  to  the  club-house. 

"Father  and  the  others  are  having  lunch  up 
there,"  he  said.  "They  are  going  to  play  this  after- 
noon." He  kissed  her. 

"It's  awfully  sweet  of  you  to  walk  out  all  this 
way  to  me,"  he  said. 

They  leaned  over  the  bridge,  and  watched  fat 
mullet  nosing  lazily  about  on  the  mud.  "I  used  to 
fish  here  when  I  was  a  kid,"  said  Harold.  "Leant 
over  this  bridge  for  hours  with  a  worm  on  a  hook, 
getting  no  end  of  thrills.  And  no-one's  ever  caught 
one  of  these  beggars  here  at  all !  But  I  didn't  know, 
so  the  sport  was  just  as  good  I  They  get  a  few  of 
them  at  the  mouth,  I  believe." 

"Quaint,  isn't  it?"  said  the  girl.  "I  remember 
you  here,  in  a  jersey  and  knickers,  with  a  tobacco 
tin  full  of  bait,  always  on  the  point  of  being  knocked 
into  the  river.  And  here  we  are  .  .  ."  She 
stopped  speaking  as  his  hand  caught  hers.  "It  is 
quaint,  dear,"  he  said.  "It  makes  Time  so  vivid 

87 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

to  one,  eh?  .  .  .  always  going  on  and  on,  I 
mean.  I  wish  we  could  stop  it  for  a  bitl"  She  did 
not  take  his  hand  from  hers,  but  she  looked  away, 
then  quickly  challenged  his  eyes  with  hers. 

"Harold,"  she  said,  "I'm  not  very  romantic,  I'm 
afraid.  I  hope  you  don't  mind?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "Good  Lord,  Alison,"  he 
began,  but  she  cut  him  short. 

"I'm  tremendously  fond  of  you,  Harold.  I  love 
the  idea  of  us  dealing  with  Life  together.  But 
.  . .  I'd  like  you  to  know,  that  I  don't  expect  to  be 
worshipped,  or  stuck  on  a  pedestal,  or  anything.  I 
think  people  do  that  almost  automatically  when  they 
get  engaged.  I'm  not  even  sure  they  don't  feel  that 
it's  expected  of  them,  though  they  don't  realize 
that,  of  course.  Only,  what  I  mean  is,  that  after- 
wards, when  they  are  quite  used  to  one  another, 
that  horrible  old  ideal  and  angel  business  has  to  be 
kept  up,  because  neither  of  them  can  bear  to  tell 
the  other  that,  of  course,  it's  all  rot  really,  and  that 
they  are  just  good  friends.  All  that  soppiness,  I 
daresay,  is  an  awfully  amusing  game  for  people  who 
like  it;  like  titivating  your  emotions,  by  reading 
costume  novels.  But  it  sets  up  an  unreal  standard, 
and  leads,  I  am  sure,  to  any  number  of  people's 
misunderstandings,  and  smash-ups.  I  want  ours  to 
be  a  commonsense  marriage,  Harold.  I  want  us  to 
be  one  of  the  very  few  couples  who  see  the  thing 
clear,  just  like  any  other  undertaking.  It  doesn't 
weaken  love  a  bit,  because  you  refuse  to  call  it  a 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

holy  mystery.  My  idea  is,  it  strengthens  it  and 
makes  it  real.  I  don't  want  us  to  have  any  bright- 
coloured  ideal,  getting  more  and  more  faded  all  the 
time,  and  getting  surreptitiously  touched  up  by  you 
or  me,  by — well  by  hanging  over  a  bridge  like  this 
and  trying  to  raise  a  soppy  tear  by  remembering  that 
we  were  kids  here! — I  say,"  she  broke  off,  "I've 
talked  an  awful  lot  without  stopping — but  I  did 
want  you  to  know  my  idea.  Do  you  agree?"  Some 
moments  passed,  as  he  watched  a  large  fish  nosing 
its  way  up  stream. 

"Yes,  I  agree,"  he  answered,  "That  is  the  sen- 
sible way  to  look  at  it." 

And,  remembering  the  wood,  he  took  comfort. 
This  was  Alison,  dealing  with  the  world  at  large: 
the  wood  was  their  very  own:  it  would  always  be 
their  very  own,  even  if  Kensington  followed.  She 
was  right,  of  course,  to  show  this  practical  face  to 
the  world.  Any  other  road  lay  the  inevitable  and 
painful  shattering  of  the  absurd  love  ideal  .  .  . 
the  pedestal  and  the  angel.  Always  the  wood  re- 
mained their  very  own. 

"And  then,  you  see,"  went  on  Alison,  "we  will 
have  gone  straight  at  it,  with  no  nonsense,  and  if 
ever  we  should  begin  to  feel  .  .  .  dangerous 
.  .  .  as  if  we  saw  each  other  differently,  then  we'd 
not  hide  it,  would  we?  We'd  just  face  that  too 
.  .  .  and  tell  each  other.  Because  there'd  be 
nothing  to  weaken  us  I" 

In  very   truth   indeed,   she   had   a   passion   for 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

strength !  He  looked  at  her  frank  questioning  face, 
and  loved  her  all  the  more  for  her  desire  to  take 
on  Life  with  her  naked  hands. 

"My  darling,"  he  began,  then  stopped.  "Of 
course  we  would  tell:  it's  the  only  reasonable  way." 
And  though  he  was  fully  persuaded  that  this  was 
indeed  the  only  reasonable  outlook,  yet  he  was  a 
little  puzzled. 

For  this  outburst  of  fearlessness  on  Alison's  part, 
this  absolute  picture  of  strength,  had  made  him 
even  more  tender  towards  her  than  ever,  with  pre- 
cisely that  protective  feeling,  which  had  come  over 
him  in  the  wood.  t 

And  this  was  curious,  for,  as  all  the  world  knows, 
it  is  only  weakness  that  calls  for  tenderness  and 
protection. 


90 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Alison  and  Harold  caught  a  large  number  of 
mackerel  that  afternoon.  She  baited  the  lines  and 
as  fast  as  he  drew  one  in  she  would  have  another 
ready  for  him.  As  an  exhibition  of  team  work  it 
reached  the  highest  point  of  efficiency.  Ted  Willis 
watched  them,  through  the  clouds  of  smoke  which 
went  up  from  a  pipe  almost  as  weather-beaten  as 
himself,  while  he  kept  the  boat  following  the  school 
slowly  and  unerringly.  But  they  tired  at  last,  for 
mackerel  fishing  is  not  great  sport,  and  while  Harold 
strung  the  catch,  Alison  rewound  the  lines  with  the 
dexterity  of  an  expert. 

"Pretty  good,  Willis,  eh?" 

Harold  regarded  his  fish  with  satisfaction. 

"First  class,"  answered  the  old  man.  "I  couldn't 
haul  'em  in  quicker  myself:  but  then  my  partner — 
he's  a  bit  of  a  fool,  I'm  afraid,  sirl" 

Alison  laughed. 

"Partner!"  she  said,  putting  down  the  neatly 
rolled  lines.  "That's  just  the  one  thing  I  would 
have  wished  you  to  call  me,  Willis!  A  partner  is 
the  one  who  looks  out  for  snags,  isn't  he,  and  heads 
away  from  them?" 

"That's  right,  miss." 

Harold  lighted  a  cigarette. 

91 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Funny,"  he  said,  "you're  having  known  us, 
Willis,  almost  as  long  as  we've  known  ourselves!" 

"Years  longer,  Mr.  Cutman,"  answered  the  old 
man.  "Years  longer.  You  only  began  to  know 
each  other  yesterday,  if  you'll  excuse  my  saying  so." 

"You  mean,"  corrected  Alison,  "that  we  only 
made  up  our  minds  that  we  knew  each  other  yes- 
terday." 

The  fisherman  smiled  curiously  over  the  water. 

"Maybe,"  he  said,  "that  is  what  I  mean,  miss, 
and  maybe  it's  not." 

He  headed  the  boat  for  the  shore  and  the  sun 
lanced  the  red  sail  gaily  with  little  shafts  of  orange. 
Ted  Willis  nodded  his  appreciation  of  the  picture, 
to  himself.  He  delighted  in  these  sudden  little 
artistries  of  coquetting  nature. 

"When  is  the  regatta  ?"  asked  Alison. 

"Middle  of  next  week,  miss,"  he  answered.  "But 
if  you  ask  me  the  date,  I  can't  tell  you.  Figures 
never  did  mean  anything  to  me." 

"I  think,"  laughed  Harold,  "I  shall  enter  for  the 
greasy  pole — I've  never  won  a  side  of  bacon  in  my 
life." 

"You  certainly  won't,  Harold,"  returned  Alison. 
"I  think  I  would  stand  anything  in  the  world  rather 
than  the  sight  of  you  making  yourself  ridiculous !" 

Ted  Willis  looked  up  suddenly.  He  had  caught  a 
ring  in  the  girl's  voice  out  of  key  with  the  con- 
versation. He  realized,  to  his  astonishment,  that 

92 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

she  had  been  quite  serious.  He  knocked  his  pipe 
out  over  the  side  of  the  boat  thoughtfully. 

"Strong,"  he  mused,  yes,  she  was  strong  all  right, 
this  girl.  But  not  strong  enough  to  hear  her  man 
laughed  at  on  a  greasy  pole.  But,  he  reflected, 
perhaps  that  was  rather  herculean  .  .  . 

Now,  Emily  had  walked  up  to  the  links  and  was 
having  tea  with  Charles  and  Peter  Margett  on  the 
little  veranda  outside  the  club-house.  Loxbury  and 
the  doctor  were  out  on  the  course,  gravely  intent 
upon  defeating  one  another. 

Emily  was  of  course  talking  of  the  great  subject. 

"It's  an  occasion,"  she  said,  "for  great  joy  and 
happiness,  I  know  it  is!  I've  been  writing  to  the 
relations  and  friends  all  the  morning  and  telling 
them  how  happy  and  pleased  I  ami  But  all  the 
time,  one  can't  help  feeling  how  sad  it  all  is,  can 
one?  Well,  of  course,"  she  rattled  on,  "I  don't 
know  about  men.  They  think  so  few  things  sad, 
don't  they?  I  remember  when  poor  Parkin  lost  his 
cousin  in  that  railway  accident  in  the  north — was  it 
Wales,  Charles? — there  was  a  fire,  at  any  rate — 
Parkin's  cousin  was  travelling  first  with  a  third-class 
ticket — while  if  he  had  been  in  his  right  class,  he'd 
probably  be  alive  to-day.  And,  do  you  remember, 
Charles,  that  wretched  Eliza,  the  one,  you  know, 
who  pressed  your  dinner  jacket  with  a  crease  down 
the  back  and  had  to  go — she  kept  on  saying  it  was 
a  judgment ;  I  was  quite  irritated ;  the  idea  of  death 

93 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

being  the  wages  of  travelling  first  without  the  right 
ticket!  Still,  I  suppose  it  is  sin,  however  you  look 
at  it.  But  Parkin's  cousin  might  have  meant  to  pay 
the  difference.  I  told  Parkin  he  must  always  try 
to  feel  that.  And  you  might  have  thought  he'd  have 
been  upset.  I  told  him  he  needn't  wait  at  dinner. 
No.  I'm  wrong.  It  was  Charles.  We  thought  it 
came  better  from  Charles.  However,  it  turned  out 
that  he  really  didn't  much  care:  he  just  took  his 
Thursday  evening,  as  usual,  and  then  I  heard  he'd 
been  to  the  Coliseum  1  That's  what  I  mean  about 
things  being  sad  to  men! — I  mean,  not  being  sad, 
you  know." 

"But,  my  dear  Emily,"  began  Charles,  "there's  no 
analogy  between  getting  married  and  getting  killed 
in  a  railway  accident." 

"No,  no,  dear,"  she  answered.  "Of  course  not; 
but  the  principle  is  the  same." 

"What  principle  ?"  asked  Margett,  floundering  in 
hopeless  fog. 

Emily  turned  to  him  seriously. 

"Well,"  she  said  slowly,  "of  course,  I  daresay 
that's  a  bad  example.  You  see,  being  two,  or  I 
believe  three  times  removed,  I  daresay  Parkin  might 
not  feel  so  much  about  his  cousin " 

"Oh,"  said  Cutman,  wearily,  "not  Parkin's 
cousin  again,  Emily!  Whatever  can  the  poor  fel- 
low have  to  do  with  it?" 

Emily  sat  back,  a  little  aggrieved. 

94 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Well,  dear,"  she  said,  "I  was  only  trying  to 
explain  and  make  it  quite  clear  how  I  felt." 

Her  husband  laughed  shortly. 

"All  I  can  say,  then,  is  that  your  feelings  must 
be  extraordinarily  intricate,  eh,  Margett?" 

Emily  smiled,  good-natured  as  ever. 

"I  daresay  that  what  I  said  wasn't  strictly 
logical,"  she  said,  "but  then  I  was  never  taught 
logic.  She  broke  off  and  with  a  half-turn,  looked 
away  over  the  tops  of  the  trees  at  the  shimmering 
sea.  "All  the  same,  you  do  lose  them!"  she  mut- 
tered. 

So  that  was  what  Emily  felt  about  it.  Just  those 
seven  words. 

"You  only  lose  that  part  of  them  which  you  never 
had,  Mrs.  Cutman,"  said  Margett. 

She  turned  swiftly  back. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  answered.  "You  had  them  all, 
once;  all  I" 

Charles  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  think  so,  Emily,"  he  said.  "Almost  the 
moment  they  can  talk,  that  other  part  begins  to 
grow  .  .  .  the  part  you  never  knew  at  all." 

Margett  nodded. 

"Personality,"  he  jerked.     "You  can't  own  it. 

.     .     .  can't  even  mother  it:  why,  you  can't  even 

know  all  of  a  dog.     The  world's  too  big  an  idea. 

You  can't  hold  down  even  a  tiny  bit  of  it  all  for 

yourself." 

95 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"You  ought  not  to  want  to,"  said  Charles  sturdily. 
"It's  infernally  selfish." 

Emily  sighed. 

"Men  don't  have  to  fight  so  hard  against  it,"  she 
murmured. 

"Popular  fallacy,"  snapped  Margett,  always  on 
the  alert  for  the  rights  of  man.  "Popular  fallacy, 
believe  me,  Mrs.  Cutman.  You  don't  think  I  like 
the  idea  of  Alison's  future  being  in  another  man's 
care,  do  you?" 

Unexpectedly  Emily  gave  vent  to  a  full,  happy 
laugh. 

"Oh,  oh  I"  she  beamed  at  the  astonished  Peter, 
her  whole  face  creasing  up  into  a  network  of  kindly 
lines — "Oh,  you  amazing  men!  You're  always 
writing  about  the  future  and  thinking  in  the  past! 
There's  nothing  so  old-fashioned  as  a  decent  man!" 

Suddenly,  with  her  bird-like  quick  turn,  and  with 
a  total  change  of  expression,  she  turned  to  Charles. 

"Isn't  that  an  epigram?"  she  asked,  with  a  note 
of  awe  in  her  voice.  "I  believe  it  is.  Anyway,  it 
would  be  if  Loveday  had  said  it.  But  of  course, 
I'm  not  clever,  so  it  can't  be.  Still,  really!"  she 
beamed  again  on  Margett.  "Do  you  remember 
your  Aunt  Alice,  Charles?"  she  went  on,  apparently 
as  inconsequent  as  ever,  "well,  I  suppose  you  don't. 
Aunts  always  get  forgotten,  somehow,  like  the 
things  you  put  at  the  bottom  of  the  shopping  list, — 
though  I  don't  believe  people  have  shopping  lists 
now — a  great  mistake,  I  think,  because  you  could 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

cross  the  things  out  which  weren't  so  important; 
and  that  saved  money.  That's  what  I  mean  about 
Aunts.  They  get  crossed  out ! 

"Emily,"  interjected  Charles  sternly,  "what  are 
you  trying  to  say?" 

"Oh,  about  Aunt  Alice  I  Why,  she  said  that  to 
me?" 

"Said  what?"  Peter  Margett  was  trying  hard  to 
account  for  Emily's  amazing  laughter. 

"She  said  my  future  was  in  the  care  of  my  hus- 
band." 

"Well,  wasn't  it?"  asked  Charles,  a  little  stiffly. 

"Of  course,  dear,"  she  answered,  "but  you  don't 
imagine  the  present  day  girl  looks  at  it  like  that, 
do  you?  Terribly  wrong  of  her,  I  expect.  Only 
she  doesn't:  I'm  sure  she  doesn't.  In  a  way,"  she 
added,  "that  makes  it  all  the  sadder." 

And  after  this  quite  unexpected  burst  of  insight 
into  modernity,  to  which,  truth  to  tell,  Emily  had 
given  birth  from  a  store  of  observation  of  which 
she  herself  was  practically  unaware,  she  relapsed 
into  silence,  back  again  at  her  original  starting 
point — the  idea  of  losing  her  son. 

Both  the  men  were  taken  by  surprise.  Margett, 
however,  from  sheer  protective  instinct  and  nothing 
else,  remarked  that  "he  didn't  agree  with  her,"  and 
that  "generalizations  of  that  kind  could  only  be 
proved  by  statistics,"  a  remark  which  quite  unfairly 
and  equally  naturally  defeated  Emily  altogether  and 
left  her  under  the  impression  that  she  had  made  a 

97 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

fool  of  herself :  poor  Emily  was  always  pathetically 
unkind  to  her  own  convictions.  She  planted  them  in 
the  firing  line,  then  scuttled  back  to  the  base  as  fast 
as  she  could  go  without  leaving  any  supports  in  the 
rear. 

Now,  at  the  first  sign  of  the  enemies'  counter- 
offensive,  without  reconnoitering  to  discover 
whether  it  was  only  a  bluff  or  an  attack  in  force, 
she  rose  quickly  and  said  that  she  must  be  getting 
home. 

"Very  well,  Emily,"  said  her  husband.  "I  will 
take  you  down  to  the  gate." 

"You're  not  going  to  play  again  this  evening?" 
she  asked. 

"There  was  some  idea  of  a  foursome,"  he 
answered. 

"Oh,  Charlie,  dear,"  she  said,  "is  it  wise?  I 
mean,  one  oughtn't  to  overdo  it !  You  aren't  a  boy 
really,  dear,"  she  added,  taking  his  arm  affection- 
ately, "though  of  course  you  will  always  be  to  me !" 

The  reference  to  his  middle  age  irritated  Cutman, 
as  indeed,  inexplicably,  did  the  little  gesture  of 
affection. 

Peter  Margett  came  to  the  rescue. 

"We  used  to  be  boys  all  the  year  round,"  he  said. 
"Now  we're  boys  for  four  weeks  only.  That 
doesn't  do  us  any  harm:  on  the  contrary!" 

Charles  felt  grateful  that  his  friend  had  not  been 
embarrassed — had  identified  himself  with  the  scene. 
Peter,  he  thought,  was  a  sympathetic  chap  .  .  . 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

capable  of  being  a  really  big  friend.  He  disap- 
peared with  Emily  along  the  stony  path  which  led 
to  the  gate  half  way  down  the  lane. 

The  Editor  seated  himself  again  at  the  little 
round  table,  a  slight  frown  accentuating  the  V-- 
shaped mark  between  his  eyebrows.  Two  members 
of  the  club,  slight  acquaintances,  came  out  on  their 
way  home. 

"Good  evening,  Margett!"  said  one.  "You're 
the  last  left  up  here  this  evening!" 

The  editor  looked  up  suddenly,  jerking  his  mind 
back  to  the  commonplace.  "I'm  waiting  for  some 
chaps  to  come  in,"  he  said.  "We  are  going  to  play 
a  few  holes  of  foursome,  if  the  light  holds." 

"Phew!"  said  the  other,  "after  to-day's  heat! 
I've  played  one  round  and  I'm  whacked !" 

"Well,  so  long,  Margett,"  came  from  the  other 
man,  a  lean,  brown  individual  with  over-emphasized 
breeches,  "if  you're  determined  to  kill  yourself, 
you've  chosen  the  right  moment!  No  witnesses! 
You'll  have  the  whole  links  as  a  private  mortuary 
till  to-morrow !" 

They  both  laughed  and  disappeared  down  the 
lane. 

Charles  came  slowly  round  the  corner  of  the  club- 
house. He  seemed  somehow  to  be  walking  like  an 
old  man.  There  was  something  grim  about  the 
downward  twist  of  his  lips,  a  suspicion  of  queer- 
ness  in  the  brooding  of  his  eyes.  "Queerness"  was 
the  word  which  Peter,  seeing  him,  suddenly  visual- 

99 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

ized  in  his  brain.  He  jumped  up  quickly  from  his 
seat.  Something  was  the  matter  with  Charles.  He 
was  sure  of  it.  Something  had  happened.  Some 
thread,  tight-drawn  for  a  long  time,  had  snapped. 
So  strong  was  the  impression  of  disaster  upon 
Margett  that  he  lost  even  that  keen  sense  of 
diplomacy  which  had  served  him  so  well  in  his 
business. 

"Charles,"  he  said,  sharply,  "what's  the  matter?" 

Cutman  pulled  himself  together.  Bound  up  in 
his  own  thoughts,  he  had  not  realized  that  he  was 
back  again  with  his  friend. 

"Matter?"  he  said,  "nothing's  the  matter!"  But 
even  he  himself  realized  and  almost  blushed  at  the 
insincerity  of  his  tone. 

"No,  no;  it's  nothing!"  he  muttered  wildly,  and 
understood  at  once  that  he  had  made  matters  worse. 

He  saw  the  editor  looking  at  him  keenly, 
curiously.  He  had  known  old  Peter  so  long  .  .  . 
Of  course,  Peter  could  see  there  was  something 
wrong.  Something  bigger  than  himself  was  beating 
down  the  barrier  of  conventional  loyalty.  He  could 
no  longer  keep  this  thing  private !  He  could  not! 

His  hands  shot  suddenly  out  in  a  gesture  which 
he  knew  to  be  theatrical  and  unlike  himself.  He 
realized  that  Peter,  still  with  that  keen  questioning 
look  in  his  eyes,  was  close  beside  him.  He  had  gone 
too  far  now  to  turn  back,  he  thought  wildly.  He 
must  explain,  something,  anything  .  .  .  Oh, 
what  should  he  say?  He  found  himself  listening  to 

100 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

his  own  words,  as  if  he  were  a  member  of  an 
audience. 

"Emily,"  he  heard.  "Tears  .  .  .  tears  and 
distress  .  .  .  Harold  and  Alison  .  .  .  and, 
oh,  my  God,  Margett,  my  comforting  her  .  .  . 
(another  meaningless,  horrible  wave  of  the  arms) 
my  comforting  her  .  .  .  tongue  in  my  cheek, 
damning  the  whole  thing  .  .  .  damning  her! 
Oh,  my  God,"  he  added  in  horror,  "My  God,  I've 
told  the  truth." 

His  head  fell,  buried  in  his  hands  and,  as  he  felt 
the  tears  dampening  them,  his  brain  told  him 
monotonously,  like  the  maddening  beat  of  a  drum, 
that  he  had  made  a  fool  of  himself — given  himself 
away.  And  these  were  tears,  tears  which  Peter 
would  be  bound  to  see.  Oh  God!  Why  had  the 
snapping  point  came  here?  Why  had  he  not  been 
allowed  to  smash  up  alone? 

He  did  not  dare  raise  his  head.  His  cheeks  were 
all  blotched,  like  a  crying  child.  Margett  must  not 
see  his  cheeks.  Silence.  It  was  good  of  old  Peter 
not  to  speak.  He  was  giving  him  time;  Charles 
understood  that.  He  lifted  his  head  slightly  and 
looked  through  his  wet  fingers:  there  was  no  one 
there. 

Then  Peter  had  funked  it  ...  had  gone 
inside.  Well,  no  wonder  ...  it  had  been  a 
rotten  thing  to  do  to  a  fellow,  to  break  down  like 
that  in  front  of  him. 

Suddenly  he  heard  Peter's  voice  behind  him. 

"Look  here,  Charles,"  it  said,  "if  you  want  to 

101 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

talk  I  swear  I  shall  understand  .  .  ."  The  voice 
shook  ever  so  slightly,  then  continued,  "more  than 
understand,  perhaps."  Then  it  regained  its  level. 
"But  if  you  don't  want  to  talk,  Charles,  I've  just 
not  been  here  for  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour  at  all." 

Oh,  splendid  Peter! 

Charles  sat  up  and  dared  even  to  look  round. 
The  editor  was  standing  some  ten  yards  away  and 
Charles  saw,  with  a  leap  of  gratitude  in  his  soul, 
that  he  was  standing  with  his  back  to  him. 

Oh,  very  splendid  Peter! 

"I  must  talk  now,"  said  Charles.  "I  must.  If  I 
don't  talk  I  shall  cry  again.  I'm  .  .  .  I'm 
damned  sorry,  Peter." 

The  editor  swung  round. 

"Alright,  Charles,"  he  said.  "I'm  jolly  glad  it 
was  I  and  no  one  else.  Cements  things,  eh?"  He 
settled  down  on  the  other  side  of  the  table. 

"Talk,"  he  urged.  "I  understand  more  than  half 
already." 

For  some  moments  Charles  was  silent,  still 
fighting  against  his  longing  to  tell  Peter  everything. 

When  he  spoke,  his  voice  sounded  weak,  as  if  he 
had  been  ill  for  a  long  time. 

"I'm  not  a  clever  man,  Peter,"  he  said,  "just 
ordinary.  If  I  was  really  clever,  I  suppose  I  could 
see  through  this  mess  in  my  soul." 

He  paused,  but  the  editor  said  nothing.  He 
knew  that  Charles  must  be  allowed  to  talk,  talk 
nonsense  even  if  necessary,  until  his  voice  became 
steady  again. 

102 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"We  spent  our  honeymoon  not  twenty  miles  from 
here.  How  I  loved  her!  Like  a  sort  of  ecstatic 
idiot:  there  was  a  laburnum  tree  we  used  to  sit 
under  together.  It  drooped  all  round  us.  We  used 
to  call  it  the  cloak  of  gold  and  pretend  it  had 
magic  in  it  and  made  us  invisible  from  the  rest  of 
the  world.  You  see,  Peter,  to  be  invisible  from  the 
rest  of  the  world  was  our  idea  of  Paradise.  It's 
horrible  of  me  to  talk  of  these  things.  They  ought 
to  be  sacred.  They  were."  He  paused  and  the 
knuckles  of  his  hands  showed  suddenly  white  as  the 
nails  bit  into  the  palms.  "That  was  just  it,"  he 
added,  "that  was  just  it!  You  can't  .  .  .  you 
can't  keep  it  up !  Have  you  ever  felt  exalted  in  a 
big  cathedral?  Incense  and  stained  glass  and  all 
that?  I  suppose  I  set  myself  always  to  live  with 
that  feeling.  It's  a  commonplace  enough  of  mar- 
riage 1  But  I've  always  been  horribly  conscientious, 
Peter.  As  a  boy,  even  .  .  ."  (his  mind  travelled 
back  to  his  schooldays,  and  pictured  various  teasings 
which  had  come  his  way  on  the  score  of  that  same 
conscience.  Now,  in  later  life,  there  seemed  a 
regiment  of  less  material  imps,  still  determined  to 
make  his  life  a  torture). 

He  picked  up  his  apologia  again  with  an  effort. 

"I  am  sorry,  Peter,  old  man.  It's  rotten  for  you 
that  I  should  go  through  all  this :  but  I  must  finish 
it  now  .  .  .  I've  got  to." 

Peter  nodded. 

"I  did  keep  it  up  for  a  good  long  time,"  went  on 

103 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

the  other.  "Harold's  coming  seemed  to  restart  it 
for  a  bit:  she  seemed  to  have  made  such  an  enor- 
mous sacrifice,  and  I  felt  more  earthy  .  .  .  and 
could  look  up  to  her  again — a  kind  of  rediscovering 
the  halo  .  .  .  Then,  gradually,  I  found  that  she 
looked  on  the  baby  as  all  hers.  Well,  that  was 
right  enough — but  somehow,  it  seemed  to  take  away 
the  halo  again."  His  voice  dropped  almost  to  a 
whisper — "and  then,  of  course,  poor  girl,  she  began 
to  lose  her  looks  1"  He  looked  up  quickly  and 
added  earnestly,  "but  that  didn't  count,  Peter.  I 
swear  to  you  I  don't  believe  that  counted  a  bit! 
But,  the  child  ....  somehow  her  responsibili- 
ties towards  the  child  seemed  to  smother  every- 
thing. I  mean  all  that  laburnum  business.  She  just 
dropped  all  that — quite  easily.  Like  one  drops  col- 
lecting stamps  when  one  goes  to  the  'Varsity — and 
that  makes  me  feel  it  hadn't  really  mattered  to  her 
.  .  .  or  perhaps  to  me:  and  I  began  to  wonder 
what  the  devil  an  ideal  was,  Peter,  and  whether — 
whether  any  girl  would  have  done  just  as  well  I" 
He  rose.  "And,  Oh,  my  God,"  he  cried,  "I'm  still 
wondering!" 

Then  suddenly,  in  a  way  that  reminded  Peter  of 
someone  playing  a  piano,  his  voice  changed  from  an 
excited  treble,  to  its  natural  pitch. 

"What  have  I  been  saying?"  he  asked.  "I've 
behaved  like  a  cad.  I  can't  expect  you  to  under- 
stand." 

The  Editor  rose  too. 

104 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"I'm  a  twenty-year  old  friend,"  he  said  simply. 

"But  Emily — "  moaned  Charles  pitifully.  "She 
could  never  have  believed  this  of  me,  that  I  should 
have  told  such  things  to  a  living  soul!"  He  seemed 
almost  frightened  at  what  he  had  done  and  his 
voice  sank  again  to  an  agonized  whisper. 

"It's  the  holidays,"  he  said,  "always  the  holidays! 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  holidays,  I  don't  believe 
this  would  have  happened." 

The  man's  lips  fluttered  like  a  child's  and 
Margett  saw  that  he  was  on  the  edge  of  breaking 
down  again. 

"Steady!"  he  said,  firmly.  "Of  course  it  is  the 
holidays." 

The  unexpected  acquaintance  wrenched  Charles 
back  from  hysteria. 

"You  understand  that?" 

He  asked  the  question  in  a  tone  which  was 
almost  awestricken.  So  it  is  always  when  one  finds 
that  one's  most  private  thoughts  are  also  those  of 
one's  friends. 

"I  understand  very  well,  indeed,"  answered  the 
Editor. 

He  realized  with  alarm  that  his  own  voice  was 
not  under  control. 

Of  course  he  had  recognized  for  years  now  that 
he  had  Joan  .  .  .  but  he  made  a  great  effort  to 
snap  off  the  conviction  he  had  so  long  and  so  per- 
sistently put  aside  that  it  appeared  almost  sub- 
conscious. In  his  turn,  he  looked  at  his  friend  with 

105 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

an  ashamed  apprehension.  There  was  a  new  light 
in  Cutman's  eyes,  the  light  born  of  an  amazing 
discovery. 

Peter  Margett  spoke  hastily,  desperate  in  his 
desire  to  cover  up  the  message  of  his  trembling 
voice. 

"Naturally,  it  is  the  holidays,"  he  said,  quickly. 
"We  see  more  of  them  in  the  holidays." 

But  he  knew  at  once  that  he  stood  condemned 
by  that  very  sentence,  condemned,  as  the  rake  is 
condemned,  talking  in  the  lounge  at  his  club;  be- 
cause he  knows  too  much.  He  heard  Cutman's 
voice  again,  normal — no  longer  speaking  to  a 
father-confessor. 

"You  too!"  he  said,  and  stopped  all  of  a  sudden. 

He  wheeled  round  instinctively,  turning  his  back, 
as  Peter  had  done  for  him.  The  Editor's  voice 
reached  him,  harsh  with  pain. 

"Damn  you,  Charles,"  it  said,  and  then  "How  in 
Hell  has  this  happened?"  He  spoke  as  one  asking 
high  heaven  a  reason  for  its  accidents — indignant, 
childlike. 

Charles  turned  again. 

"I  can't  help  being  glad,  Peter,"  he  said,  "that 
I'm  not  alone  in  this  .  .  .  this — "  he  hesitated. 

"Ah,"  rasped  the  other,  "Sin,  you  were  going  to 
say  I" 

"Sin?"  Cutman  gave  a  har'd  laugK.  "The  wages 
of  sin  is  death,  Peter.  We  don't  get  off  so  lightly." 

The  Editor  turned  upon  him  quickly. 

106 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"And  our  wives?"  he  said.  "Do  you  think  they 
don't  know,  don't  suffer?"  Oh,  curse  you,  Charles 
.  .  .  curse  you !  The  thing  was  asleep.  You'ye 
wakened  it!  What's  the  good?"  He  was  furiousf 
at  his  own  lack  of  strength. 

Cutman  came  slowly  across  .the  grass  until  he 
was  facing  his  friend. 

"Because  I  can't  stand  it,  Peter,"  he  said,  "not; 
can  you!  There  may  be  twenty  years  more  life 
to  us  both  .  .  .  twenty  years  more,  too,  for 
Emily  and  Joan:  and  all  those  twenty  years  are 
going  to  be  dead  for  us  all !  Dull,  rotten,  stagnant 
years,  because  we've  lost  touch  with  .  .  .  with 
.  .  .  oh,  with  the  laburnum  tree  1  I  don't  know 
how  to  put  it  better." 

The  Editor  had  pulled  himself  together,  and  only 
his  eyes,  strained  and  dark,  now  showed  that  he  was 
suffering. 

"Because,"  he  said,  "a  tree  now  is  only  a  tree 
.  .  .  well,  that's  what  must  happen  to  everyone. 
A  child  discovers  that  its  doll  is  wax  .  .  .  once  it 
has  learnt  that  wax  exists:  we  discover  that  pur 
dolls  are  wax — and  that  wax  is  dull!  And  the 
women:  they  have  discovered  it  too,  I  suppose." 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "It  can't  be  helped,"  he 
added,  hopelessly. 

A  long  silence  followed.  These  two  men,  the 
one  overstrained,  the  other,  by  accident,  had  lifted 
the  curtain  on  their  souls.  They  were  closer  to  one 
another  than  they  had  ever  come  during  their  long 

107 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

friendship.  Yet,  since  the  unveiling  had  come  so 
suddenly,  they  were  embarrassed.  At  last  Cutman 
turned. 

"Peter,"  he  said,  simply,  "I  can't  accept  the 
verdict.  I  can't  live  the  rest  of  my  life  like  that." 
For  some  moments  the  Editor  did  not  speak,  then, 
at  last  .  .  . 

"We've  got  to,"  he  said.  "There's  no  way  out — 
we  must  just  hope  that  they  don't  care  I" 

"Oh,  God,"  whispered  Cutman,  "I  can't!  There 
must  be  a  secret  .  .  v  .  something  we  have 
missed  I" 

"Nothing,"  said  the  Editor.  "It's  the  usual  thing : 
only  most  people  don't  think  about  it.  There's  no 
secret. 

Charles  crossed  to  the  table  and  picked  up  his 
cap. 

"Let's  go  down,  Peter,"  he  said.  "They'll  under- 
stand we  didn't  wait  for  the  foursome." 

"Very  well,"  answered  the  other,  and  disappeared 
into  the  club-house.  It  was  understood  that  the 
curtain  was  again  drawn,  but  Cutman  was  hurling 
against  his  mind,  like  a  racquet  ball,  against  the 
back  wall  of  a  court,  one  sentence, 

"No  secret  ?  Oh,  my  God,  no  secret  to  look  for  I" 
*  .*.  .*. ,  *  * 

And,  as  they  walked  home,  out  of  the  faint  sum- 
mer evening  mist,  already  creeping  along  the  links, 
behind  the  little  lawn  upon  which  these  two  had 

108 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

lately  stood,  naked  and  bitterly  ashamed,  there 
stepped  a  woman,  dressed  in  the  short  tweed  skirt 
and  knitted  jumper  natural  to  her  surroundings, 
with  merry  eyes  and  a  mouth  that  was  seldom  still, 
medium  tall,  whose  years  it  would  be  hard  to  guess, 
but  firm  in  her  stride,  and  full  of  good  life. 

She  came  straight  down  to  the  chairs  on  which  the 
two  men  had  sat  and  there  paused.  She  looked 
from  one  to  the  other,  a  tiny  smile  playing  about 
her  lips,  and  the  smile  might  have  been  tender,  or 
ironic,  or  even  nothing  at  all,  but  the  look  in  the 
eyes,  and  the  eyes  themselves  were  those  of  a 
Madonna. 

She  turned  suddenly  and  vanished  into  the  already 
darkening  lane. 


109 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  two  men  did  not  speak  again,  on  the  way 
back  to  the  hotel,  of  the  subject  which  flooded  their 
minds,  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else.  They 
walked  in  silence,  until  they  were  in  sight  of  the 
hotel  entrance  and  then,  when  Margett  spoke,  it 
was  to  say  something  utterly  trivial. 

"We  couldn't  have  played  many  holes,  anyway. 
The  light  is  too  bad."  And  Cutman  nodded  seri- 
ously. 

He  found  Emily  in  the  drawing-room,  arranging 
some  wild  flowers  in  a  green  and  yellow  vase  which 
she  had  borrowed  from  the  establishment.  Ap- 
parently, she  had  recovered  from  her  recent  dis- 
tress and  was  now  concentrating  upon  the  joyous 
side  of  the  marriage. 

"What  do  you  think?"  she  said  as  Charles  came 
in,  "so  touching  and  kind:  it  almost  made  me  cry, 
Charles!  And  so  unexpected  I  I  mean,  you  don't 
expect  people  to  care  enough,  do  you?  Well,  not 
those  sort :  somehow  the  people  whose  bills  you  have 
to  pay  never  seem  as  human  as  others.  Anyway,  it 
was  a  great  surprise  to  me,  and  I  think  it  would 
have  been  to  you,  Charles  1" 

Cutman  waited  for  her  to  go  on,  but  nothing 
happened. 

no 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Perhaps  it  would,"  he  said,  "if  I  knew  what  it 
was!" 

uWhy,"  continued  Emily,  "when  I  got  back, 
Mrs.  Honeycott  met  me  and  started  to  say  a  lot  of 
nice  things  about  Harold,  about  when  he  was  here 
as  a  little  boy;  do  you  know,  Charles,  it's  amazing 
what  these  people  remember,  when  you  don't 
imagine  they  remember  anything!  She  recalled  all 
about  when  Harold  cut  his  thumb  and  there  was  the 
lock-jaw  panic  because  he  couldn't  speak  and  then 
we  found  it  was  one  of  those  lime-drops  he  used  to 
buy  at  Dray  ton's,  jammed  right  in  between  his  back 
teeth!" 

"But  what  has  happened?"  asked  her  husband. 

"Oh,  yes,"  answered  Emily,  tying  her  mind  down 
to  the  matter  in  hand  with  a  great  effort.  "Appar- 
ently it  all  started  in  the  kitchen:  the  cook,  you 
know,  kind  soul,  wanted  to  send  up  a  special  dish  at 
dinner  to-night.  Well,  of  course,  she  had  to  ask 
Mrs.  Honeycott's  permission,  and  when  Mrs. 
Honeycott  heard,  she  evidently  went  one  better,  and 
now  there's  to  be  a  special  dinner  in  a  private  room 
to  celebrate  their  engagement  and  I  must  say, 
Charles,  that  I  think  the  whole  thing  is  very  touch- 
ing and  you  are  not  to  laugh  at  the  cook  or  Mrs. 
Honeycott!" 

Charles  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"Why  should  I?"  he  said. 

But  .  .  .  oh,  ye  Gods!  a  dinner  to  celebrate 
the  coming  of  another  marriage,  on  this  night,  of 
all  nights! 

Ill 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"You'll  have  to  make  a  speech,  Charles,"  he 
heard  her  saying,  "and  so  will  Peter  Margett,  and 
I'm  sure  no  one  will  be  able  to  prevent  Mr.  Lox- 
bury  making  one  tool" 

"Oh,  surely,"  he  said,  "we  can  do  without 
speeches." 

"It  will  look  very  odd,"  answered  Emily  seriously, 
"if  someone  doesn't  say  a  few  words." 

Emily  had  always  been  a  martyr  to  the  terror  of 
things  seeming  "very  odd."  This  disease,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  had  governed  most  of  her  life. 
Charles  realized  that  she  would  be  upset  if  the 
"few  words"  were  not  forthcoming.  It  was  an 
occasion  which  could  only  happen  once  and  that  it 
should  not  have  happened  with  full  ritual,  would, 
he  knew,  always  remain  a  source  of  real  distress  to 
Emily. 

So  he  and  Peter  Margett  would  say  a  few  words, 
to  congratulate  the  happy  couple  .  .  .  Well, 
that  was  simple  and  natural  enough.  But,  to-night ! 
His  brows  gathered  over  the  irony  of  this  dinner, 
which  had  to  be  so  very  happy. 

Emily,  of  course,  misunderstood  his  long  silence. 

"Really,  Charlie,"  she  said,  "you've  made 
speeches  at  any  number  of  big  dinners.  It  isn't  so 
very  terrifying  to  congratulate  your  son  and  your 
future  daughter-in-law,  is  it?" 

He  laughed  uneasily. 

"No,  no,"  he  said.    "But  it's,  rather  short  notice: 

112 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

I  must  think  of  something  witty.  It's  pretty  hard, 
you  know,  being  up  against  a  journalist  1" 

She  plumped  the  last  fox-glove  into  position  in 
the  green  vase  and  crossed  to  him. 

"You're  just  as  funny  as  any  journalist,  Charlie," 
she  said,  kissing  him  on  the  check.  "I  love  all  your 
jokes!" 

He  kissed  her,  looking  over  her  head  with  trouble 
in  his  eyes. 

"Then  that's  all  right,"  he  answered  lightly. 
"And  what  do  the  children  think  of  it?" 

"They  don't  know  about  it.  It's  being  kept  as 
a  great  surprise  for  them!"  She  laughed  happily, 
snatching  back,  as  some  women  will  at  these  times, 
a  bit  of  the  romance  herself. 

"It's  time  we  started  to  dress,  dear!"  she  added, 
and  pushed  him  playfully  through  the  door,  carry- 
ing the  flowers  for  the  dinner  table  in  her  hand. 

Alison  met  Harold  as  he  came  down  to  the  lounge 
from  his  bedroom. 

"Well,"  she  asked,  with  a  little  laugh,  "I've  just 
heard  about  the  dinner,  from  mother.  What  do  you 
think  about  that?" 

"It's  fearfully  kind  of  them,"  said  Harold.  He 
was  half  afraid  that  Alison  would  have  put  her 
practical  foot  down  on  the  whole  business. 

But  she  answered  at  once  with  a  nod. 

"It  is,"  she  said,  "awfully  kind.  I  think  it  was 
specially  jolly  of  the  cook.  Why  on  earth  should 
she  care?" 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Wonderfully  kind,"  murmured  Harold  again. 

"But  they  are  fixing  it,  like  this,"  went  on  Alison, 
"making  it  into  a  date,  an  anniversary.  Then 
there's  the  wedding:  of  course  that  gets  fixed  into 
a  date  automatically — it  just  becomes  a  date  instead 
of  a  day.  The  date  sort  of  overwhelms  the  day. 
Have  you  ever  noticed  that  any  number  of  people 
simply  adore  dates?" 

Her  tone  was  light,  but  Harold  noticed  an  under- 
note  of  something  like  irritation. 

"Well,  you  see  .  .  ."  he  was  beginning  slowly, 
but  she  went  straight  on. 

"Ted  Willis  is  a  keen  old  bird,"  she  said,  with 
something  very  like  a  chuckle.  "  'The  mackerel  are 
in  the  bay,'  he  said,  "but  they're  hurrying  down  the 
boats.  'Ware  nets!' — I  think  we're  going  to  slip 
round  the  nets  all  right,  Harold!"  she  added 
triumphantly,  as  she  took  his  arm. 

Owen  Weare  was  coming  down  the  stairs,  his 
full  mouth  curved  with  a  smile  of  conscious  and 
beaming  kindliness.  It  was  impossible,  looking  at 
him,  to  imagine  that  he  would  not  make  a  speech. 

"You  see  what  I  meant,"  whispered  Alison, 
"about  all  the  things  that  would  happen  to  make  it 
less  real?" 

Harold  nodded. 

Then  Emily,  fussing  happily  down  the  stairs,  and 
Joan  cautiously  forming  a  chorus  to  the  con- 
gratulations of  the  others. 

114 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Loveday  Weare  came  down  alone,  pausing  at  the 
bend  in  the  stairs,  to  look  down  upon  the  group  in 
the  lounge. 

She  saw  the  doctor  beaming  radiant  romance 
upon  the  young  couple,  taking  the  lead  in  welcoming 
these  two  recruits  to  the  ranks  of  the  blessed,  and 
her  lips  curled  in  an  ironical  smile.  There  was  none 
of  that  bedside  manner  at  her  bed.  Then  she  too 
joined  them,  silent  as  ever.  Loxbury  arrived  with 
twinkling  eyes,  absolutely  in  his  element,  and  per- 
sisting in  calling  himself  a  "blackleg,"  to  the  com- 
plete mystification  of  Emily,  who  imagined  he  was 
saying  "blackhead"  and  did  not  consider  it  in  the 
best  of  taste.  The  dinner  proved  successful  enough, 
the  general  appreciation  of  the  good-nature  that  had 
inspired  it,  having  its  influence  even  among  all  these 
cross-currents  seated  round  the  table. 

There  was  a  friendly  argument  as  to  who  should 
propose  the  health  of  the  bride.  Loxbury,  deter- 
mined to  speak  at  all  costs,  wished  to  perform  this 
duty,  on  the  score  that  he  was  unbiased. 

Emily,  fervid  for  the  correct  thing,  insisted  that, 
however  informal  the  "little  gathering"  as  she  called 
it,  might  be,  Charles  Cutman  possessed  an  inalien- 
able right  to  propose  the  health  of  his  future 
daughter-in-law.  Peter  Margett  cut  short  the  con- 
versation, suddenly. 

"Of  course,  it's  for  Charles,"  he  said.  "I  shall 
reply.  Loxbury  can  speak  on  'The  right  to  be  a 
bachelor'  afterwards." 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

There  was  a  general  laugh  as  Cutman  rose,  a 
glass  of  Port  in  his  hand.  Peter,  he  thought,  was 
coming  through  all  right,  why  not  he?  If  only  this 
dinner  had  been  to-morrow  or  the  next  day.  Why, 
it  was  barely  two  hours  ago,  that  rending  .  .  . 
Now  his  brain  was  divided.  He  must  attempt  noth- 
ing but  a  few  simple  words.  He  was  obsessed  with 
the  idea  that  he  must  show  how  sincere  he  was. 

"Ladies  and  Gentlemen,"  he  began,  "or  should 
I  say  old  friends? — this  is  a  very  happy  duty  which 
devolves  upon  me  unexpectedly,  to-night." 

(Hear!  hear!"  from  the  doctor,  the  very  picture 
of  Dickensian  goodwill.) 

"You  must  forgive  me,  if,  owing  to  its  unex- 
pectedness, my  words  are  ill-chosen  and  unready." 

'"No — no!"  from  Harold,  backing  up  his  father 
from  pure  family  feeling.) 

"All  of  us  here,  with  one  exception,  (Loxbury 
pretended  to  be  overcome  with  embarrassment  and 
shame)  have  known  what  it  means  to  have  been 
happily  mated,  for  more  years  than  we  care  to 
acknowledge.  I  cannot  do  better,  in  proposing  the 
health  of  Alison,  than  to  express  the  hope  that  she 
will  enjoy  long  life,  splendid  health  and  a  happiness 
equal  to  that  of  those  who  are  wishing  her  well 
to-night!"  He  sat  down,  his  eyes  on  his  plate,  feel- 
ing that  if  he  found  that  Peter  Margett  was  looking 
at  him,  he  might  scream.  But  they  were  all  applaud- 
ing, and  Emily  was  shouting  "bravo"  in  a  thin, 
piercing  treble. 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Then  the  Editor  was  on  his  feet. 

"As  a  dress-rehearsal  for  the  wedding-breakfast," 
he  said,  "I  welcome  this  opportunity  of  trying  it 
upon  the  dog,  as  I  believe  the  theatrical  expression 
goes !  (laughter.)  I  want  to  thank  dear  old  Charles 
very  much  indeed,  on  behalf  of  myself,  my  wife  and 
my  daughter,  for  all  the  good  things  he  has  wished 
her  in  the  future.  I  think  he  might  have  said  a 
little  more — "  (Hear  I  hear  I"  again  from  the  doc- 
tor.) "But  it  is  my  experience  that  he  reserves  most 
of  his  vocabulary  for  use  on  the  golf  links."  (Loud 
and  prolonged  laughter.) 

"Oh,  splendid  Peter!"  thought  Charles.  He  was 
trotting  out  all  the  traditional  jokes,  calmly  and 
methodically,  putting  the  tension  that  he  knew  was 
there,  back  to  the  normal,  with  a  sure  touch. 

"Of  course,"  continued  the  Editor,  "our  young 
friend,  Harold,  does  not  want  any  bouquets  from 
me.  At  work  and  at  play,  however,  I  think  we 
have  known  him  long  enough  to  say  that  we 
thoroughly  approve  of  his  methods  1" 

(Loud  applause,  during  which  Emily  thumps 
Harold  violently  upon  the  back,  while  two  great 
glistening  tears  roll  slowly  down  her  cheeks.) 

"As  for  his  work,"  went  on  Peter,  "I  may  say 
I  have  some  knowledge  of  that,  having,  on  several 
occasions,  had  the  pleasure  of  refusing  articles  from 
his  pen."  (Laughter.)  "For  my  daughter,"  he 
continued,  "I  really  don't  know  what  I  can  say. 
From  the  age  of  four  until  ten,  she  and  I  were 

117 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

in  frequent  disagreement  upon  most  questions." 
"(Loud  laughter.  Really  Peter  was  superb!)  "But 
after  that,  I  think  we  have  seen  eye  to  eye  in  most 
matters  and  I  cannot  do  better  than  to  associate 
Joan  with  myself  in  an  expression,  which  politicians 
invariably  employ  when  they  propose  to  hedge  the 
next  day — namely  that  Alison  is  our  daughter,  a 
word  I  use  with  all  the  emphasis  of  which  I  am 
capable,"  (laughter)  "and  that  the  Government, 
that  is,  myself  and  Joan,  will  accept  full  responsi- 
bility for  her  actions  in  the  future  I" 

He  sat  down  amid  applause  and  laughter. 
Charles,  glancing  across  at  his  face  as  he  smilingly 
filled  up  Loveday's  glass  could  hardly  realize  that 
this  was  the  man  who  not  three  hours  since  had  cried 
in  a  voice  thin  with  pain,  "Curse  you,  Charles! 
The  thing  was  asleep,  you've  wakened  it!"  He 
realized  that  his  own  little  speech  had  been  stilted, 
formal.  He  wondered  whether  anyone  had  noticed 
it,  and  felt  a  pang  of  irritation  at  Peter's  success. 
Yet  there  was  no  doubt  that  the  pain  in  his  voice,  up 
there  on  the  links,  had  been  real. 

Well,  the  future  would  be  easier  for  Peter,  any- 
way, with  that  wonderful  faculty  for  hiding  himself, 
that  strange  working  efficiency  when  the  engine  was 
rotten,  inside.  And  he,  Charles  (a  physical  fear 
gripped  him  at  the  thought) ,  had  got  to  hide  himself 
for  the  rest  of  his  life.  .  .  . 

There  was  no  secret!  Peter  had  said.  But 
Charles  kept  a  smile  on  his  lips,  while  these  thoughts 
chased  one  another  through  his  mind,  for  the  table 

118 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

wa$  in  an  uproar  of  merriment.  Loxbury  was  trying 
to  make  a  speech,  deploring  with  mock  tragedy  the 
lonely  life  of  a  bachelor,  and  the  doctor  was  inter- 
rupting him  with  jovial  sarcasms. 

The  door  opened  suddenly,  and  the  voice  at  the 
table  died  away,  in  jerks,  like  the  smashing  of  a 
large  piece  of  china. 

A  woman  stood  in  the  doorway,  looking  at  the 
scene.  She  was  in  evening  dress,  rather  wonderful 
evening  dress,  it  seemed  in  the  frame  of  the  com- 
mon little  room,  for  its  colours,  though  not  par- 
ticularly bright  in  themselves,  seemed  somehow  to 
take  all  the  light  to  them,  as  if  an  invisible  ray  had 
been  thrown  upon  her  at  her  entrance.  Her  eyes 
twinkled  merrily  on  the  company  at  the  table,  and 
the  corners  of  her  lips  twitched  with  the  beginnings 
of  a  smile.  If  Harold  had  been  asked,  he  would 
have  said  she  was  a  girl.  Charles  would  have  called 
her  a  woman.  That  was  her  age.  Her  fascina- 
tion— for  it  was  indubitable — was  not  easy  to  define. 
Her  deep  soft  eyes  were  tired,  but  they  looked  as  if 
they  were  just  tired  from  laughing.  She  gave,  some- 
how or  other,  an  enormous  impression  of  vitality 
.  .  .  a  vitality  eternal,  independent  of  herself. 
An  arresting,  electric  personality — the  Lady  of  the 
Links.  Then  she  laughed,  and  Charles  had  a  queer 
sudden  impression  that  he  had  not  expected  her  to 
be  so  human. 

Her  laugh,  in  fact,  freed  them  all  from  the  spell 
of  her  unexpected  entrance. 

"I'm  so  sorry!"  she  said,  in  a  gentle,  caressing 

119 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

voice,  "You  see,  I  engaged  this  sitting  room,  but  I 
only  did  it  to-night.  And  I  expect  we've  over- 
lapped!" 

She  laughed  again  and  the  commonplace  explana- 
tion of  her  presence  came,  curiously  enough,  as  a 
relief. 

Doctor  Weare  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"What  a  silly  muddle!"  he  said,  "but  we  need 
not  inconvenience  you.  We  have  just  finished!" 

The  newcomer  made  a  movement  of  protest  but 
the  Doctor  waved  it  aside  breezily. 

"Certainly  not,"  he  said.  "We  couldn't  possibly 
keep  you  out  of  your  room.  Charles,  I  think  the 
bell  is  behind  you;  this  litter  must  be  cleared  away." 
The  little  party  passed  out,  murmuring  excuses. 
In  the  lounge  Loveday  turned  to  Joan. 

"I've  seen  that  face  before  somewhere,"  she  said. 

"I  wonder  where  ?"  queried  the  other. 

Loveday  shook  her  head. 

"In  a  picture  perhaps,"  she  murmured,  "or  per- 
haps in  a  dream :  I've  only  seen  it  for  a  moment." 

The  hearty  voice  of  her  husband  cut  her  short. 

"And  I  say,"  he  was  asserting,  "that  a  walk  under 
the  moon  is  the  proper  programme !  Just  as  far 
as  the  huts  and  back.  Shake  down  the  dinner  and 
do  us  all  good!" 

They  acquiesced.  None,  not  even  had  they 
wanted  to,  would  have  attempted  to  argue  with  the 
doctor  in  his  bluffest  mood.  The  sound  of  their 
footsteps  merged  into  the  gentle  rustic  of  the  sea. 

120 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Upstairs,  the  intruder  had  closed  the  door;  then 
she  had  walked  slowly  round  to  the  chair  at  the 
head  of  the  table  where  Charles  had  been.  She 
rested  her  hands  on  the  back  of  the  chair  and  her 
eyes  travelled  across  to  Peter's  empty  seat. 

The  same  tender  little  smile  played  about  her  lips 
as  might  have  been  seen,  a  few  hours  ago,  up  on  the 
cliffs. 

At  last  she  curled  herself  up  on  a  queer  stiff  little 
sofa  which  stood  in  the  window,  and  looked  out  on 
the  moon,  and  the  little  crawling  things  under  the 
moon. 

Accident  is  grim  in  its  sense  of  fitness  and  con- 
trived that  Charles  and  Peter  Margett  should  find 
themselves  together  in  the  walk  along  the  front. 
A  natural  shyness  possessed  them  both,  and  for 
some  time  they  strode  along  in  silence. 

"You  were  wonderful  at  dinner,"  said  Charles  at 
last. 

The  Editor  cursed  under  his  breath. 

"Don't  follow  it  up,"  he  said.  "Don't  hunt  it, 
Charles,  for  Heaven's  sake.  Can't  you  leave  it 
alone?  It  will  slip  back  to  it§  proper  place,  if  you 
give  it  a  chance." 

"That's  what  Willis  meant  by  cowardice."  The 
barrister  hardly  realized  that  he  had  said  this  aloud, 
until  Peter  turned  upon  him  savagely. 

"Leave  it  alone,  you  fooll"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
tense  with  anger* 

121 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

So  that  was  the  secret  of  Peter's  strength,  the 
power  of  putting  things  behind  him. 

"Look  here,  Peter,"  said  the  other,  "that'§  sur- 
render, you  know!" 

He  felt  that  the  sentence  sounded  like  a  school- 
boy's. But  Peter  Margett  seemed  to  take  it  seri- 
ously enough. 

"I  tell  you,"  he  said,  "that  is  what  it  means  to  be 
strong  ...  to  know  when  to  surrender.  Fate, 
God,  Life  .  .  .  whatever  you  like  to  call  him, 
you've  got  to  show  him  the  white  flag.  That's  the 
price  of  sanity." 

"No,  no,  Peter,  it's  a  fearful  creed." 

The  other  man  dug  his  stick  into  the  grass  and 
fern  at  the  cliff's  side. 

"All  creeds  are  fearful,"  he  muttered.  "That's 
what  they  are  for:  always  to  make  you  afraid  of 
something  or  other." 

But  Charles  shook  his  head  vigorously.  Yet  he 
felt  he  could  not  argue  about  it.  This  was  Peter's 
way  of  life,  which  had  practically  come  to  be 
himself  . 

"Anyway,"  he  said,  at  last,  "there  is  one  thing 
I  want  you  to  know,  Peter.  I  never  meant  that  I 
no  longer  love  Emily." 

"Of  course  not,"  came  the  answer,  "only  we 
object  to  living  the  rest  of  our  lives  in  half-tones. 
Heavens  above !  it's  natural  enough.  Read  a  story 
full  of  colour,  a  story  of  ships  ...  it  makes  us 
restless.  Well,  why?  You  and  I  know  why.  But 

122 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

it's  no  good,  Charles.  You've  had  your  bit  of 
colour,  and  you  can't  recapture  it.  I  tell  you  there's 
no  power  on  earth  that  can  make  a  laburnum  tree  a 
cloak  of  gold  for  us,  now.  If  you  can't  be  gloriously 
happy,  be  as  happy  as  you  can.  That's  the  answer !" 

Charles  could  see  that  Peter  wanted  to  escape 
from  the  subject.  He  was  not,  by  nature,  an  adven- 
turer and  he  always  clung,  desperately,  to  the  status 
quo.  It  was  a  new  light  on  Peter,  who  by  virtue  of 
talking  In  jerks  and  headlines,  had  achieved  a  repu- 
tation for  distinguished  originality. 

Still,  Charles  was  ready  enough  to  abandon  the 
subject;  he  had  told  Peter  what  he  had  wanted  to 
tell  him,  that  he  still  loved  Emily.  Why  he  should 
have  wanted  to  tell  him  that,  he  could  not  imagine. 
Half-tones  indeed!  Why,  this  last  weakness  re- 
duced the  picture  of  his  existence  to  a  smudge  of 
hazy  greys.  Peter's  voice  recalled  him  to  the  im- 
mediate present. 

"Curious  woman,"  he  was  Saying.  "Interesting: 
not  a  bit  like  Whyticombe  I" 

Strangely  enough,  Charles  understood  immedi- 
ately what  woman  he  meant. 

"Not  quite  like  any  place,"  he  answered.  "Yes, 
I  think  'interesting'  is  the  only  word  for  her." 

He  was  a  little  surprised  to  find  himself  giving 
the  adjective  so  much  thought.  .  .  . 

By  this  time  they  had  lost  sight  of  the  others, 
and,  having  no  enthusiasm  for  the  silver  pageant  of 
that  summer  night-sky,  turned  back  towards  the 

123 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

hotel.  As  they  walked  in  silence,  someone  started 
singing  down  by  the  waters'  edge.  The  voice,  a 
small  mellow  baritone,  quavered  every  now  and 
then,  in  a  quaint  arresting  way.  Some  of  the  words 
reached  them. 

"For  all  my  feet  can't  get  'em  wings, 

Nor  eyes  o'  mine  pierce  far, 
I'll  thank  old  Earth  for  what  she  brings — 
With  my  fingers  round  a  star !" 

The  singer,  plainly  enough,  was  fitting  his  words 
to  his  tune.  Neither  was  particularly  erudite,  but 
the  general  effect  was  intriguing.  The  Editor, 
always  at  the  mercy  of  word  magic,  stopped  sud- 
denly. 

"For  all  the  sea  be  cruel  and  wet, 

With  devil  a  harbour  bar, 
I  reckon  I'll  make  my  landfall  yet, 
With  my  fingers  round  a  star." 

The  words  ceased  abruptly,  but  the  melody,  if 
such  a  singsong  could  be  called  melody,  was  carried 
on  in  a  soft,  gay  humming.  Someone,  thought 
Charles,  was  very  happy,  down  by  the  water's  edge. 

What  was  it  about  that  voice  that  he  found  so 
oddly  familiar?  Most  familiar  of  all  when  it 
cracked  and  quavered  and  seemed  to  go  stammering 
away  on  the  slight  night  breeze. 

Not  old  Willis,  surely,  singing,  on  the  edge  of 
the  stones,  at  this  time  of  night? 

124 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Curious;  odd  tune,  queer  words!" 

The  Editor's  voice  broke  in  upon  Cutman*s 
meditations. 

"Metre  all  wrong,  of  course.  But  the  whole 
thing  .  .  .  time  and  all  ...  something  of 
the  fascination  of  the  primitive!  Don't  talk,"  he 
added  sharply,  "he  may  go  on!" 

But  the  singer  had  finished,  and,  though  the  two 
men  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  asphalt,  straining 
every  nerve  for  another  note,  nothing  came  to  them 
except  the  eternal  splash  and  draw  of  the  sea  upon 
the  patient  pebbles. 

Charles,  remembering  that  the  old  fisherman  had 
favoured  him  with  some  part  of  his  private  self 
under  the  hedge  near  Testleigh  woods,  felt  it  no 
business  of  his  to  tell  Peter  any  suspicions  as  to  the 
identity  of  this  singer  of  crude  rhymes  at  the  sea's 
edge. 

"Curious,"  said  the  Editor,  as  they  continued  on 
their  way.  "Some  old  sea  chanty,  perhaps :  and  yet 
it  didn't  sound  like  that." 

It  appeared  that  Peter  possessed  a  vast  and  far- 
reaching  knowledge  on  the  subject  of  sea-chanties. 
Doubtless  all  the  essential  information  on  such  mat- 
ters was  pigeon-holed  at  his  office,  in  case  wind- 
jammers became,  all  of  a  sudden,  a  popular  subject. 
At  any  rate,  he  insisted,  for  the  remainder  of  the 
walk,  on  pumping  into  the  unwillingly  receptive 
Charles  all  manner  of  facts  about  sailors :  every  one 
of  them  absolutely  true  and  absolutely  without 
romance. 

125 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Further  along  the  front,  sitting  upon  a  seat  under 
the  cliff,  Emily  was  seriously  disturbed. 

"You  see,"  she  was  saying  to  Joan  and  Loveday, 
"It's  so  queer :  I  mean,  one  can't  help  remembering 
how  different  it  was  when  we  were  engaged!  Of 
course,  I  know  that  young  people  are  very  different 
now:  I  myself  had  a  daily  housemaid  with  most 
astonishing  ideas — she  was  in  love  with  a  post- 
man, a  very  nice  man,  I  believe — I  think  most  post- 
men are,  don't  you?" 

Loveday  nodded.  She  knew  that  Emily  would 
let  her  meaning  escape,  as  it  were  by  accident,  if 
her  listeners  were  patient  enough. 

"But,  do  you  know  that  girl  was  just  as  much 
interested  in  the  postal  system  as  in  the  postman? 
Well,  that's  what  I  mean  about  Harold  and  Alison. 
They — they  won't  be  left  alone,  you  know.  There 
doesn't  seem  any  sort  of — of  nice  silliness  about 
them!" 

Joan  Margett  nodded.  As  the  mother  of 
Harold's  future  wife  she  felt,  in  a  sense,  that  she 
must  share  this  puzzle  with  Emily. 

"Alison,"  she  said,  "has  always  been  tremen- 
dously independent." 

Emily  turned  to  her  earnestly. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  think,"  she  answered,  "that 
I  am  criticising  her:  Alison  is  a  dear  girl.  .  .  . 
You  know  I  think  that,  Joan,  dear?" 

Her  hand,  clammily  sincere,  found  Joan's.  Its 
touch  was  unreasonably,  unjustifiably  irritating. 

126 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Joan  realized  that  Emily  was  always  irritating 
.  .  .  because  she  was  always  so  sincere  and  so 
"right." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  she  said,  trying  hard  to  tune 
her  voice  to  the  other's  pitch  of  sentiment,  "only, 
they  are  both  of  the  new  generation,  you  know — I 
suppose  they  must  work  out  their  own  salvation." 

She  knew  that  she  had  made  use  of  a  cliche  and 
that,  as  always,  it  had  struck  a  dull,  lifeless  chord. 

Loveday,  rising  suddenly,  came  to  her  rescue. 
She  stretched  her  arms,  wearily  almost,  and  spoke 
away  to  the  water,  as  if  to  an  audience  that  was  not 
there. 

"Yes,  it's  not  good  to  fight  it,"  she  said.  "It's 
not  a  worthy  fight.  Because,  don't  you  see,  that's 
how  they  feel,  and  so  that's  how  they  must  be. 
After  all,  who  knows  ?  They  may  be  right :  but,  of 
course,  at  our  age  we  are  content,  and  rightly  con- 
tent, to  be  wrong!" 

She  turned  suddenly  to  Emily. 

"Don't  you  understand,"  she  went  on,  "that  we 
shall  be  dead  long  before  they  know  the  result  of 
their  experiment?  Wouldn't  you  far  rather  they 
took  a  new  road,  if  it  looks  good  to  them,  than 
plodded  slowly  along  the  one  we  know,  just  because 
we  line  the  pavement  and  keep  them  to  it?" 

But  Emily,  full  of  misgiving,  shook  her  head. 

"No,  Loveday  dear,"  she  said.  "Of  course,  I'm 
sure  that  what  you  say  is  right  ...  I  mean 
really  right.  Like  a  circle  being  an  infinite  number 

127 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

of  dots,  or  something,  as  Charlie  says  .  .  .  and 
I'm  sure  he's  right.  Only,  to  me,  it  just  makes 
circles  impossible.  I  suppose  I've  my  own  foolish 
idea  of  a  circle — a  thing  like  my  embroidery  frame. 
I'm  sure  if  I  thought  it  was  made  of  dots  going 
on  forever,  I  couldn't  do  another  stitch." 

She  broke  off  suddenly  with  a  gesture  of  im- 
patience. 

"There  I  go!"  she  said  petulantly.  "I'm  not 
thinking  about  circles  at  all,  you  know!" 

Joan  nodded,  reassuringly. 

"I  know,"  she  answered.  "You  mean  that  a 
scientific  engagement  is  a  bad  start  for  marriage." 

Emily  nodded  quickly. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "that's  it;  I  can't  really  believe 
in  it." 

"I  daresay."  The  impersonal  voice  of  Loveday 
broke  in  unexpectedly.  "But  can  you  really  believe 
in " 

She  hesitated  and  stopped.  Joan,  with  her  keen 
sensibilities,  scented  danger,  danger  to  the  desirable 
illusions  of  Emily. 

"She  is  quite  right,"  she  said,  "it  isn't  natural. 
And,  if  it  isn't  natural,  it's  a  pity!" 

She  uttered  the  last  sentence  defiantly,  as  one  who 
is  not  really  prepared  to  defend  her  argument.  But 
Loveday  understood  and  was  silent. 

After  all,  Emily  had  a  right  to  be  happy,  any 
way  she  could. 

And  then  Emily  shivered  a  little  and  said  it  was 
getting  chilly  and  that  she  was  going  to  find  Charlie. 

128 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

They  watched  her  thick,  comfortable  figure  dis- 
appearing into  the  dark.  It  was  Joan  who  was  the 
first  to  speak. 

"You  shouldn't  do  it,  Loveday,"  she  murmured. 
''What's  the  use  of  upsetting  poor  Emily?  It 
isn't  as  if  she  could  discover  anything,  through  being 
upset.  She's  not  made  like  that." 

Loveday  Weare  laughed,  a  queer,  hopeless  laugh. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  Emily  is  going  to  be 
horribly  upset  before  very  long." 

"Ah?"  Joan's  voice  was  full  of  interest.  "The 
storm?" 

Loveday  nodded. 

"I  rather  think  it's  broken  already,"  she  said. 

Joan  answered  her  very  seriously. 

"Look  here,"  she  said,  "you  ought  not  to  say 
these  things,  unless  you  know  .  .  .  and  not 
even  then,  perhaps !" 

The  other  nodded  in  acquiescence. 

"Then  I  won't  say  them,  Joan :  I  know  that  there 
are  advantages  in  living  in  blinkers." 

But  her  friend  was  fascinated,  fascinated  by  the 
queer,  almost  supernatural  certainty  of  this  woman. 
She  could  not,  as  she  felt  she  should,  cut  loose  from 
the  subject. 

"And    .    .    .    Peter?"  she  whispered. 

Loveday  nodded,  without  a  word.  But  at  that 
the  very  soul  of  Joan  revolted.  Peter's  character, 
Peter's  idiosyncrasies,  even  Peter's  absurdities,  she 
might  discuss  and  laugh  at.  After  all,,  Peter  would 
no  longer  wish  to  be  treated  as  a  god.  Those  years 

129 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

were  past.  But  this — this  hinted  at  deeper,  more 
private  weaknesses ;  which,  even  if  they  existed,  were 
hers,  no  one  else's.  She  turned  on  Loveday,  like  a 
tigress,  yes,  a  tigress  defending  her  young. 

For  Peter  had  always  been  more  her  young  than 
Alison. 

"You  suggest  these  things  lightly  enough,  of 
other  men!"  she  said  angrily.  "I  believe,  Loveday, 
that  you  enjoy  giving  words  that  may  mean  nothing 
or  everything,  and  playing  with  words  and  hinting ! 
But  if  you  know  so  much,  or  guess  so  much,  what 
of  your  own  man?  What  of  Owen  in  this  precious 
storm?" 

She  stopped  indignant,  wanting  words  to  feed  her 
wrath.  But  Loveday's  answer,  unexpected,  paint- 
ing, as  it  did,  in  a  few  vivid  words,  the  picture  of  a 
whole  lifetime  of  possible  ideals  stifled  at  the  source, 
found  her  at  last,  sitting  abject,  abject  with  pity,  and 
a  sense  of  her  own  past  blessings. 

"Owen?"  she  had  echoed,  derisively,  driven  sud- 
denly out  of  her  long-schooled  reticence.  "Owen? 
Dear,  bluff,  honest  old  Owen,  the  very  prince  of 
good  fellows!" 

Every  word  burnt  like  acid.  _  She  dropped  her 
voice  to  a  lower,  tenser  key. 

"Owen  will  never  have  to  fight  with  any  storm." 
she  said.  "Why  do  you  think,  Joan,  that  I'm  so 
silent,  so — so  queer?  Oh,  I  know  well  enough  what 
others  think  of  me!  Do  you  suppose  it's  natural? 
Do  you  think  I  was  born  without  a  tongue  and — oh, 
lot's  of  things  I  wanted  to  say?" 

130 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Her  white  hands  fluttered  pathetically  against 
the  rail  of  the  seat. 

"Of  course,"  she  went  on,  "I've  tried  to  cover  it 
up.  I  told  you,  not  long  ago,  that  it  was  because  I 
found  that  the  things  I  said  upset  people !  And  you 
believed  it!  Why,  Joan,  it  doesn't  matter  upsetting 
people,  in  that  way!  Do  you  think  I've  no  more 
courage  than  that?" 

She  leant  across  the  seat,  her  face  very  near  her 
friend's. 

"Couldn't  you  guess?"  she  said.  "Couldn't  you 
guess  that  it  was  because  I  had  never  been  happy?" 

Joan  remembered  suddenly  the  curious  words  she 
had  used  of  the  doctor:  "I  believe  he  likes  being 
kind." 

The  other  gave  a  queer,  discordant  laugh. 

"Oh,"  she  whispered,  "there  are  vices  which  peo- 
ple never  speak  about  .  .  .  perhaps  because  they 
are  too  common;  I  don't  know.  Have  you  ever 
heard  of  the  Marquis  de  Sade?  He  loved,  adored 
blood  and  pain." 

Her  voice  sank  lower  still. 

"There's  a  sadism  of  the  mind,  Joan, — a  fearful 
lust  and  longing  to  see  the  victim  shrink  and  curl  up, 
like  the  fringe  of  an  oyster  when  you  sprinkle  the 
vinegar  upon  it!" 

"Dear  bluff,  sympathetic 7  Owen !  How  his 
patients  love  him.  But  I  am  his  real  patient, 
Joan, — the  subject  for  his  vivisection!" 

She  threw  her  hands  into  the  air  and  a  dry  sob> 
escaped  from  her  throat. 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"In  the  bedroom  .  .  .  after  dinner  .  .  . 
but  especially  in  the  bedroom  ...  he  operates 
on  me:  he  knows  I  am  too  sensitive  to  find  the 
anaesthetic  that  use — even  bad  use — can  bring  to 
some  people.  He  torments  my  beliefs,  he  even 
remembers  the  few  words  I  have  said  during  the 
day  and  twists  them  into  ridicule!  And  I  hear  so 
much,  from  the  people  who  pay  him,  of  Owen's 
wonderful  bedside  manner!  Dear,  splendid  old 
Owen,  I've  heard  people  say,  what  a  pity  he  isn't  a 
father!  Joan,  though  almost  every  day  the  probe 
is  twisted  deep  into  that  particular  sore,  I  swear  to 
you  that  I've  thanked  God  again  and  again  that 
Owen  will  never  be  a  father  now!  Because  I  love 
children." 

She  stopped  suddenly,  breathing  fast.  Joan  was 
crushed,  appalled  by  this  revelation  from  the 
cellared  soul  of  Loveday  Weare.  She  was  incap- 
able of  speech,  even  if  adequate  words  could  have 
come  to  her. 

"I  can  trust  you,"  said  Loveday  at  last,  "to  say 
nothing  of  what  I've  told  you.  It's  not  loyalty.  I 
owe  none  to  him.  But  I  hate  pity." 

She  rose  deliberately. 

"As  for  my  husband,"  she  said,  "he  will  never  go 
through  any  crisis  in  his  affections  for  me.  I  wish 
to  God  he  would,  and  lose  the  battle !" 

Joan  saw  her  thin  lips  close  tightly,  and  she 
realized  that  Loveday  had  said  everything.  She 
rose,  her  mind  numbed  by  this  amazing  thing.  She 

132 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

felt  she  could  not  speak,  could  not  attempt  to  deal 
with  such  a  tragedy  in  foolish  words.  But  Loveday, 
with  her  fund  of  strange  unexpected  sympathies, 
understood  her  friend's  embarrassment. 

"I  don't  want  pity,  dear,"  she  said.  "I  don't 
want  you  to  talk  of  it,  at  all.  It's  my  own  fault,  in 
a  way,  for  I  have  never  been  strong  enough  to  cut 
myself  off  from  the  way  I  was  brought  up,  and  to 
leave  him.  I  would  never  have  told  you — only  I 
wanted  you  to  know  how  much  you've  got  to  be 
thankful  for,  even  if  Peter  deserted  you  to-morrow  1" 

Joan  squeezed  her  hand  in  the  darkness;  it  was 
pitiful  to  feel  how  Loveday  responded  to  this  like 
a  schoolgirl  .  .  .  oh,  pitiful! 

She  could  not  speak  even  then,  and  they  reached 
the  hotel,  still  silent. 

In  the  hall  was  the  doctor,  lately  arrived  with 
Alison  and  Harold.  He  came  forward,  beaming, 
and  took  his  wife's  arm. 

"I  have  been  the  favoured  one!"  he  said  in  his 
rich,  round  voice,  "I  have  walked  home  with  the  two 
guests  of  the  evening!  Good-night,  everybody!"  he 
added,  collecting  them  all  with  one  big  paternal 
sweep  of  his  eyes.  "It's  time  to  turn  in,  if  we  are 
going  to  keep  up  the  celebrations  by  a  real  holiday 
morning  to-morrow!" 

His  very  intonation  was  an  incitement  to  jollity. 
He  turned  and  went  up  the  stairs,  his  arm  still 
holding  Loveday's.  Beneath  the  crook  of  his  elbow 

133 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

her  hand  hung  listless,  as  dumb  in  its  appearance  as 
her  own  nature  had  become. 

They  disappeared  round  the  bend  on  to  the 
landing. 

Joan  stared  after  them,  another  horror  dawning 
in  her  eyes.  For  the  meaning  of  Loveday's  words 
had,  all  at  once,  become  real  to  her. 


134 


CHAPTER  IX. 

It  was  Loxbury  who  made  the  amazing  discovery 
on  the  golf  links.  He  had  been  slicing  his  tee  shots, 
and,  becoming  suddenly  serious  about  it,  had  gone 
up  early,  before  the  morning  round,  and  spent  an 
hour  with  the  professional.  When  the  others 
arrived,  the  bachelor  was  beaming  with  suppressed 
information. 

"A  handicap  of  four,"  he  announced,  "and  Hart- 
ley here,  says  she  plays  down  to  a  man's  eight!" 

Hartley,  the  professional,  nodded.  He  was  a 
short,  bullet-headed  little  man,  with  hands  which 
were  perpetually  writhing  together,  as  if  looking 
for  new  variations  of  the  grip.  "Yes,  sir,"  he  said, 
"I  was  out  a  few  holes  with  her  this  morning:  that's 
about  her  form.  Quite  deadly  on  the  green,  sir,  but 
of  course,  no  great  length,  and  apt  to  make  mistakes 
with  her  irons." 

This,  in  golfing  terms,  is  almost  expressive  of  a 
man's  ideal  in  woman.  Let  her  be  deadly  on  the 
greens:  there's  no  great  harm  in  that,  even  though 
it  should  win  the  match  in  the  end.  But,  to  be  out- 
driven from  the  tee !  That  would  be  intolerable  and 
place  her  immediately  so  much  higher  than  the 
angels  that,  in  sheer  self-defence,  she  would  have  to 
be  artificially  degraded,  and  called  "unfeminine"  01; 

135 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"over-developed,"  or  indeed  anything  that  would 
serve,  however  inconclusively,  to  satisfy  the  male 
sense  of  pride. 

And  then  that  aptitude  for  making  mistakes  with 
her  irons!  There  was  something  tremendously 
sympathetic  about  that.  This,  without  a  doubt  is 
the  really  adorable  woman,  the  girl  who,  any 
moment,  may  make  a  mistake  with  her  iron  .  .  . 
or  indeed,  with  anything  else.  Queer  creatures, 
these  knickerbockered,  crude-looking  objects,  called 
men.  They  have  a  sneaking  adoration  for  incom- 
petence in  their  women-kind,  mixed  with  a  childish 
and  worshipping  amazement  that  she  is  able  to  do 
anything  at  all.  It  is  possible  that  women,  too,  are 
glad  when  their  men  fail  in  something.  Both  have 
a  queer  passion  for  weakness,  hidden  away,  like  a 
secret  vice,  under  the  obvious  rectitude  of  admira- 
tion for  strength. 

"She's  out  now,"  Hartley  was  saying,  "playing 
the  pit  hole.  It's  a  long  carry  for  a  woman,  sir,  and 
she's  awfully  keen  about  doing  it." 

There  was  something  fascinating  about  that,  too : 
not  so  fascinating,  of  course,  as  if  she  should  carry 
the  pit,  but  just  the  wanting  to.  One  felt  one  would 
encourage  her  like  anything,  and  really  hope  that 
the  ball  would  fly,  at  last,  over  the  brink. 

And  yet,  if  it  did,  one  knew  that  it  would  be  a 
disappointment. 

Hartley  vanished  into  the  wooden  hut,  that  was 
his  factory. 

136 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"I  should  never  have  thought,"  said  Loxbury, 
"from  seeing  her  in  evening  dress,  that  she  was  a 
golfer  I" 

"Seems  to  be  a  master — mistress,  rather,  at  both 
games!"  laughed  Peter. 

"She  could  play  any  of  us  level  on  her  handicap !" 

Charles'  comment  struck  the  others  as  funny. 

"Poor  old  Charles!"  said  Loxbury.  "Is  that  a 
revelation  to  you  ?  Why,  there  are  plenty  of  women 
who  could  give  us  all  strokes." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  answered  Charles,  only,  he  had 
never  imagined  them  to  be  quite  that  kind  of  woman, 
not  in  evening  dress,  anyway.  Besides,  a  woman 
who  could  play  you  level  on  your  handicap  .  .  . 
that  was  just  about  everything. 

A  scratch  player  was  always  just  a  little  inhuman 
to  Charles. 

Then,  suddenly,  Peter  realized  that  they  had  all 
been  talking  of  "her,"  and  that  no  one  knew  in  the 
least  who  "she"  was.  Yet  undoubtedly,  all  had 
been  talking  of  the  same  person.  It  must  be,  he 
thought,  a  very  strong  personality  to  impress  itself 
thus  without  any  label  whatsoever. 

"What  is  her  name?"  he  asked,  turning  to  Lox- 
bury. 

The  bachelor  shook  his  head. 

"Upon  my  word,"  he  answered,  "I  don't  know  I" 

He  called  through  the  open  door  of  the  workshop, 

"Hartley,  what  is  the  lady's  name?" 

The  professional  appeared  in  the  doorway,  the 
shaft  of  a  club  in  his  hand. 

137 


"She  never  gave  me  her  name,  sir,"  he  said, 
"She's  not  been  here  before,  in  my  time :  but  I  sup- 
pose she'll  have  put  her  name  in  the  green-fee  book." 

They  went  in  to  change  their  shoes,  and  Cutman, 
who  had  walked  up  in  the  golfing  boots  which  he 
always  took  home  and  oiled  religiously,  turned  over 
the  pages  of  the  strangers'  book,  while  waiting  for 
the  others. 

The  ink  on  the  last  entry,  a  bold,  loveable  scrawl, 
was  still  wet. 

But  the  name  written  was  simply  "Mary." 
There  was,  it  is  true,  a  kind  of  hieroglyphic  in  front 
of  it,  which  might  have  been  an  initial.  Yet,  Mary, 
as  a  surname,  was  really  rather  amazing.  Under 
the  space  reserved  for  the  home-club  of  visitors, 
there  was  simply  a  dash.  But  the  smaller  space  on 
the  other  side  of  the  page  showed  that,  at  any  rate, 
Miss  Mary — or  was  it  Mrs.  Mary? — had  paid  her 
three-and-sixpence. 

"I  say,"  said  Charles,  as  Peter  came  into  the 
room,  "Just  look  at  this!" 

The  Editor  crossed  and  peered  over  his  shoulder. 

"So  that's  the  lady  of  last  night,"  he  sa\d. 
"Mary!  What  a  surname  I  It  would  make  intro- 
ductions extremely  embarrassing,  eh?"  He  laughed, 
and  looked  at  the  scrawl  again. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "as  a  woman's  surname,  it's 
quite  pretty.  Miss  Felicia  Mary — or  Mrs.  F.  J. 
Mary."  As  usual  he  was  twisting  the  words  into 
colours.  "But  the  thing  is,  she  must  have  had  a 
father  ...  or  a  husband;  and  then  it's  an 

138 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

absurdity.  Fred  Mary,  Esq.,  or  George  Mary, 
Solicitor!" 

He  laughed  heartily  at  his  own  conceptions: 
"And  think,"  he  chuckled,  "if  he'd  been  fat  ... 
or  with  a  walrus  moustache  or  something  I  Ye  gods, 
think  of  a  conversation  at  his  Club !  'Excuse  me,  I 
didn't  quite  catch  your  name !' — 'My  name's  Mary, 
sir.'  And  my  dear  Charles,  he  might  be  bald  as 
well!"  Peter  went  off  into  shrieks  of  laughter  at 
the  conceit.  He  appeared  to  have  put  far  behind 
him  that  fearful  stripping  of  himself,  which,  in 
point  of  mere  time,  was  so  very  close. 

Even  Charles,  whose  wound,  if  not  deeper,  at 
least  throbbed  more  painfully,  seemed  now  to  have 
slipped  back  into  the  normal  without  any  obvious 
period  of  convalescence. 

Not  that  there  was  anything  peculiar  in  this 
sliding  back  into  their  everyday  selves.  The  biggest, 
most  poignant  tragedy  in  the  world  escapes  its  own 
tyranny  in  the  end;  finding  its  proper  value  in  the 
scheme  of  things,  colouring  the  picture  of  a  life,  but 
never  directing  its  design.  And  besides,  the  pains 
of  Peter  and  of  Charles,  whatever  their  private 
ideas  on  the  subject,  were  not  built  on  this  heroic 
scale.  Their  trouble,  acute  only  because  they  were 
unfortunate  enough  to  be  acutely  conscious  of  it, 
was  far  too  common  and  too  ordinary  to  be  admitted 
to  the  company  of  the  great.  And  yet,  in  all  con- 
science, they  suffered  enough,  thereby!  Which 
makes  it  all  the  more  odd  that  here  they  were, 

139 


joking  and  laughing  over  a  name  in  the  visitors' 
book! 

But  deep  down  in  Charles,  and  in  Peter  Margett, 
too,  something  was  stirring,  stirring  ever  so  gently 
and  cautiously,  like  a  rabbit  in  a  wood,  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  ahead  of  the  beaters;  stirring  uneasily,  and, 
so  softly  now  that  they  themselves  were  hardly 
aware  of  it.  Yet,  at  any  moment,  like  the  rabbit, 
this  something  might  take  fright,  plunging  wildly 
away,  crashing  through  the  bracken,  heedless  of 
tell-tale  rustlings  and  cracklings  till,  inevitably  at 
last,  there  came,  too  late  to  stop,  the  great  green 
closet  of  a  riding,  where  a  gun  would  very  surely 
have  been  placed. 

Then,  of  course,  you  must  not  hesitate  because,  if 
you  do,  you  will  find  that  your  mad  speed  has 
petered  out  just  exactly  in  the  middle  of  that  pitiless 
stretch  of  uncovered  grass,  and,  choked  with  a 
paralytic  sense  of  immediate  disaster,  you  will  sit 
up,  bunched  and  solid,  a  gift  to  the  most  hopeless 
duffer  amongst  the  guns. 

That,  if  one  could  only  know  it,  must  be  rabbit- 
philosophy. 

But,  unlike  the  rabbit,  Charles  and  Peter  were 
unaware  not  only  of  the  far-off  presence  of  the 
beater,  but  even  that  they  were  stirring  at  all. 

Yet  there  was  the  fact.  The  beater  was  trying 
hard  to  get  a  small  white  ball  over  the  far  side  of  a 
green  pit,  and  Charles  Cutman  and  Peter  Margett 

140 


WHERE  YOUR,  TREASURE  IS 

were — still  in  rabbit-language — unconsciously  cock- 
ing their  ears  to  the  alarm. 

They  played  their  customary  morning  round, 
two  singles.  Charles  was  playing  against  the 
doctor,  and  (for  he  could  not  completely  ignore  the 
still  smouldering  fire  of  his  distress),  envied  Owen 
Weare  his  whole-hearted  enthusiasm  for  the  game. 
Here  was  a  man,  he  thought,  whose  love  had 
triumphed  over  all  these  problems.  He  felt  a  new 
admiration  for  the  doctor,  abasing  himself  as  a 
miserable  creature.  And,  naturally  enough,  he 
thereby  pressed  and  topped  and  fluffed  his 
approaches,  and  over-ran  or  was  never  up  to  the 
hole,  and  indeed  broke  all  the  ten  commandments 
of  golf. 

As  a  result  he  was  well  beaten,  and,  worst  of  all, 
discovered  that  he  did  not  care. 

At  lunch,  on  the  balcony,  which  offered  a  lovely 
view  of  the  sea  over  the  tree  tops,  it  was  discovered 
that  Loxbury,  still  slicing,  was  disinclined  for  the 
usual  afternoon  foursome.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he 
was  sulking  about  these  very  tee-shots,  exactly  as  a 
child  sulks  when  its  tower  of  bricks,  through  some 
initial  mistake,  falls  at  the  actual  moment  of  per- 
fection. Such  a  demonstration  in  the  nursery  is 
accounted  naughty,  and  solemn  words  are  spoken  of 
the  virtues  of  self-control  as  exemplified  in  the 
behaviour  of  Bruce  and  the  spider  or  some  other 
entirely  irritating  character,  happily  for  himself 
always  out  of  reach  of  the  maddened  child. 

141 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

But  in  golf  it  is  quite  different.  Petulance  is  re- 
spected. Rage  is  understood,  and  even  dignified  by 
the  tribute  of  sympathetic  silence. 

Loxbury,  who,  had  he  been  forty  years  younger 
would  inevitably  have  been  sent  to  bed  for  his 
behaviour  at  lunch,  was  accounted  a  man  suffering; 
unfairly  visited  by  disaster,  and  was  treated  with  a 
kind  and  tactful  sympathy.  Thus,  wrapt  about  with 
that  peculiar  hauteur  of  self  pity  which  only  a 
failure  at  golf  can  produce,  he  was,  in  the  end, 
escorted  as  far  as  the  little  gate  at  the  top  of  the 
lane  by  Peter  Margett,  who  was  quite  genuinely 
sorry  for  him. 

As  for  the  bachelor,  he  arrived  back  in  the  little 
town,  possessed  of  a  not  unpleasant  sense  of 
martyrdom,  and  spent  the  afternoon  upon  the  beach 
pretending  for  himself  an  aesthetic  nature  which 
could  find  a  strange  sadness  in  the  deep  sparkling 
blue  of  an  unruffled  summer  sea. 

"I  sliced  for  months  at  one  time,"  Cutman  was 
saying  seriously,  as  Peter  reached  the  verandah 
again.  "I  tried  everything." 

"Left  foot  forward?"  The  doctor  threw  in  his 
question  in  exactly  the  same  tone  as  he  asked 
whether  a  patient  had  ever  had  a  course  of  calomel. 

Charles  nodded. 

"And,  in  the  end,'  he  went  on,  with  a  grave  shake 
of  the  head,  "I  even  began  facing  away  to  the  on, 
every  time.  Relying  on  the  slice,  you  know  I" 

"Oh,  that's  fatal!"  This  from  Peter,  who  had 
caught  up  the  thread  of  the  discussion. 

142 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"I  know,"  answered  Charles,  "but  I  was  fairly 
'desperate,  Peter!"  He  paused  and  ground  out  his 
cigarette  on  the  saucer  of  his  coffee  cup.  "The 
slicing  disappeared  in  time,"  he  added,  "I  don't 
know  why —  Now,  of  course,  I'm  pulling,"  he  went 
on  with  a  wry  smile. 

"Tried  the  left  foot  drawn  back  a  bit?"  asked  the 
doctor;  and  so  the  eternal  theme  had  gone  the  full 
circle  once  again. 

"Don't  you  think  it's  much  more  a  question  of 
wrists?" 

All  three  men  turned  in  astonishment  at  the 
Interruption.  The  strange  lady  had  come  out  of  the 
door  at  the  end  of  the  balcony,  which  led  into  the 
women's  quarters,  and  was  leaning  against  the  rail, 
facing  them. 

"Oh,  don't  get  up,"  she  begged,  as  they  started 
to  scrape  back  their  chairs.  "It's  fearfully  im- 
pertinent of  me  to  chime  in  at  all,  but,  in  a  way — " 
here  she  gave  a  merry  little  laugh,  "I  met  you  all 
three,  at  the  party  last  night,  didn't  I" 

She  drew  up  a  chair  to  the  table,  and  Charles  dis- 
covered that  it  was  rather  pleasant  to  feel  that  she 
did  not  seem  to  expect  this  to  have  been  done  by 
one  of  them.  Exquisitely  feminine  though  she 
appeared,  she  did  not  require  little  services — and 
thus  big  services  do  not  lose  their  value.  Peter 
offered  her  his  cigarette  case  '(Cutman's  was  just 
too  late,  under  the  table),  but  she  shook  her  head 
and  picked  up  the  conversation  again. 

"I'm  afraid  this  is  really  horribly  impertinent  of 

143 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

me,"  she  said,  "but  you  see,  I'm  fearfully  keen  and 
I'm  a  fellow  slicer!" 

After  that,  of  course,  there  was  no  need  for  intro- 
ductions. Deep  had  called  to  deep.  Indeed  there 
are  few  better  ways  of  putting  all  human  beings 
upon  an  equal  footing  than  this.  Discover  that  the 
butler's  approaching  has  gone  to  pieces,  at  the  same 
time  as  his  master's,  and  you  will  find  the  true 
brotherhood  of  man.  Play,  in  a  kind  and  paternal 
spirit,  a  game  of  tennis  with  one  whose  twin  pig- 
tails tell  you  she  is  still  under  nursery  rule;  stand 
up,  if  you  can,  to  her  slashing  service  and  her  un- 
expected returns :  contemplate  the  fact  that  the  mis- 
takes she  makes  are  the  mistakes  you  make — and 
the  chasm  of  years,  created  from  a  sense  of  self- 
protection,  will  vanish.  You  will,  after  a  set  or 
two,  be  playing  tennis  with  your  equal ;  what  though 
she  disappears  after  the  game,  within  the  autocratic 
sphere  of  a  governess,  and  is  heard  protesting 
shrilly  against  the  ukase  that  wet  shoes  must  be 
changed  immediately. 

So  also  can  the  barriers  of  sex  be  pushed  over, 
by  the  same  formula  that  annihilates  class  and  age. 

Thus  they  sat  talking  earnest  golf  for  some  time 
until  Peter  Margett,  again  anticipating  Charles  only 
by  a  few  seconds,  asked  her  whether  she  would  care 
to  make  a  fourth  in  their  afternoon  round. 

She  nodded. 

"How  kind  of  you,"  she  said,  "of  course,  I  should 
love  it.  You  see,"  she  added,  as  she  rose  to  her 
feet,  "I  am  quite  a  stranger  here  1" 

144 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

She  turned  and  vanished  through  the  door  at 
which  she  had  appeared,  saying,  over  her  shoulder 
that  "she  would  not  be  a  minute." 

In  less  than  that  time  she  had  reappeared,  her 
clubs  swung  over  her  shoulder. 

"I  never  take  a  boy,"  she  said.  "They  always 
seem  so  small  at  the  seaside.  While  you  are  looking 
for  your  ball  in  long  grass,  you're  just  as  likely  as 
not  to  lose  your  boy." 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  three  men  invariably  took 
out  caddies  on  the  afternoon  round,  but  this,  of 
course,  made  it  impossible  on  that  afternoon. 

There  is  no  need  to  describe  the  game.  Charles 
played  with  the  strange  lady,  against  the  Doctor 
and  Peter.  She  made  a  wonderfully  sympathetic 
partner.  Charles  experienced  an  actual  pleasure  in 
apologizing  to  her,  after  putting  their  ball  in  some 
hopeless  position.  For  there  is  an  undeniable  joy 
in  being  sorry,  to  the  right  person.  This  trivial 
companionship  involved  in  being  partners,  un- 
reasonably annoyed  the  Editor.  He  would  have 
liked  to  have  been  saying  how  sorry  he  was.  .  .  . 

As  for  Owen  Weare,  he  played  his  usual  steady, 
serious  game,  concentrating  upon  it,  undisturbed  one 
way  or  the  other  by  the  presence  of  their  unusual 
companion. 

But  to  Charles  and  to  Peter,  the  whole  affair  was 
gradually  assuming  the  interest  and  the  thrill  of 
adventure.  There  was  that  quaint  entry  in  the 
visitors'  book — a  name  which  was  only  half  a  name. 
Moreover,  she  had  never  introduced  herself  at  all: 

145 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

and  that  almost  made  her  appear  to  have  no  name 
at  all,  for  the  majority  of  people,  in  meetings  and 
partings,  are  so  apt  to  insist  upon  the  importance  of 
mere  names.  Charles  became  conscious  of  this 
lacuna,  while  negotiating  a  two-foot  put  to  win  a 
hole  and  he  nearly  ran  the  ball  off  the  green.  But 
then,  of  course,  Charles  should  not  have  been 
thinking  about  his  partner  at  all,  at  the  moment 
when  the  whole  business  of  life  was  to  hear  their 
ball  drop,  with  a  pleasing  clatter,  against  the  bottom 
of  the  tin.  He  excused  himself,  enjoying  the  oppor- 
tunity, and  heard  her  acquiesce  sunnily,  in  his  state- 
ment about  the  "trickiness"  of  the  greens.  Then 
she  holed  the  ball  from  a  far  corner  and  halved 
the  hole. 

"What  a  partner  I"  he  was  thinking,  as  she 
walked  with  him  to  the  next  tee,  warning  him,  with 
a  smile,  that  she  had  never  yet  carried  the  pit,  but 
that  this  time  she  was  going  to  try  harder  than  ever ! 

And,  of  course,  she  failed.  Anything  else  would 
have  been  intolerable.  The  ball,  clean  hit,  struck 
the  further  edge,  some  three  feet  from  the  top,  and 
rolled  back  and  down — kicking  about,  this  way  and 
that,  until  it  finally  settled  under  an  uncompromising 
piece  of  scrub. 

"Oh  dear!"  she  said,  "what  is  the  good  of  saying 
I'm  sorry  for  that !  It  couldn't  have  found  a  more 
dreadful  place !" 

But  somehow,  this  failure  in  mere  strength  was 
simply  entrancing. 

146 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Owen  Weare  drove  his  ball  well  over  the  brink 
of  the  pit.  But  Charles  clamored  down,  happily 
enough,  with  his  heaviest  mashie  in  his  hand,  and 
hoped  more  fervently  than  he  had  hoped  about  any- 
thing for  a  long  time  since,  that  some  divine  accident 
would  happen  and  cause  him  to  lay  his  own  ball 
beside,  or  even  beyond,  Owen  Weare's. 

And  it  did. 

How  he  managed  it  he  did  not  know;  he  simply 
felt  an  overpowering  will  to  shift  the  little  white 
ball  that  lay  under  the  shadow  of  that  infernal  piece 
of  scrub.  He  may  even  have  shut  his  eyes,  as  the 
heavy  club  came  crashing  down.  There  were  stones 
and  boulders  about,  and  it  was  a  risky  matter  to 
hit  hard. 

But,  when  he  looked  up,  there  was  the  strange 
lady,  outlined  against  the  sky  above  him,  her  head 
half  turned  away  following  the  ball,  and  her  hands 
together  .  .  .  applauding  his  effort:  applauding 
his,  Charles's  effort!  Then,  for  the  first  time,  as  he 
climbed  up  the  opposite  slope  towards  the  ecstatic 
silhouette  of  his  partner,  he  experienced  a  feeling  of 
danger.  Deep  down,  it  shook  him  ever  so  slightly, 
like  the  thin,  small  tremor  heralding  an  earthquake. 

"Oh,  a  splendid  shot  1" 

He  was  standing  beside  her,  as  he  heard  the  en- 
thusiastic words,  and,  maybe  it  was  a  good  thing 
that,  at  the  moment,  he  was  too  much  out  of  breath 
to  reply.  It  is  not  good  for  men,  when  they  have 
reached  the  age  of  Charles,  to  experience  a  great 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

longing  in  the  hollow  of  a  pit,  to  have  achieved  it, 
and  to  climb  out  and  face  the  audience ! 

This  is  the  lure  of  the  footlights,  childish  and 
unreasonable,  but  horribly  compelling.  And  so, 
perhaps,  it  is  a  matter  for  congratulation  that 
Charles  found  himself  out  of  breath. 

Then,  over  a  stretch  of  springing  turf,  the  vision, 
once  more,  of  Peter  and  the  doctor.  .  .  . 

"Hotshot!" 

This  from  Owen  Weare,  intent  upon  the  game. 
But  from  Peter,  nothing.  He  was  always,  except  in 
the  convictions  which  coloured  the  paper  he  con- 
trolled, honest. 

Now  he  was  honestly  jealous. 

In  this  key,  the  game  continued  to  the  eighteenth 
green. 

It  is  not  profitable  to  try  to  analyse  the  quality 
of  fascination,  if  only  because  its  surrounding  cir- 
cumstances are  so  hard  to  trace.  But  the  force 
itself  exists,  just  like  electricity  or  the  weird  power 
in  the  atom,  but  even  less  divined  in  its  first  causes. 
Indeed,  its  effects  are  practically  all  that  are  known 
about  it. 

Thus,  as  Peter  and  Charles  drove  against  one 
another,  up  the  long  slope  of  the  last  hole,  they  both 
realized  that,  in  relation  to  the  woman  whose  name 
in  the  visitors'  book  was  entered  as  "Mary,"  they 
were  in  the  nature  of  competitors. 

Their  hearts  beat  quicker  for  the  chase,  as  they 
had,  years  ago,  when  they  snatched  their  wives  from 

148 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

the  unimaginable  hundreds  who  might  have  become 
the  mates  of  Joan  and  Emily.  Since  then,  perhaps, 
those  legendary  husbands  had  dwindled  in  number 
through  the  years,  dwindled  and  dwindled,  until 
now  there  remained  only  the  actual  inevitable  one. 

But  at  that  time  it  had  not  been  inevitable: 
rather  had  it  been  a  tremendous,  intoxicating 
gamble. 

Here,  again,  undeniably,  was  that  same  gambler's 
thrill.  A  little  disturbing,  when  a  man  is  past  fifty 
and  his  whole  instincts  lean  towards  the  respectable : 
yet,  for  all  that,  impossible  to  refuse. 

The  emotion,  the  attraction,  the  desire — what 
does  it  matter  how  you  label  it? — the  thing  was 
there,  established.  And  Charles  and  Peter,  from 
whom  the  very  horses  of  Hippolytus  in  their  first 
ecstacy  of  terror,  could  not  have  dragged  the 
information,  knew  it,  to  the  discomfort  and  joy  of 
their  separate  souls,  as  they  panted  up  the  slope 
towards  the  club  house. 

Here  they  came  upon  Alison  and  Harold,  who 
had  wandered  up  to  the  links  for  tea,  and  were 
starting  out  for  nine  holes  afterwards.  The  young 
people  looked  at  the  four  coming  in,  noticed  the 
strange  lady,  and,  about  to  hail  them,  hesitated. 
Then  they  realized  that  this  was  indeed  Charles 
Cutman  and  Peter  Margett,  and  shouted  their 
greeting.  Charles  and  Peter  waved  their  hats  in 
response.  It  was,  of  course,  utterly  ridiculous,  but 
that  meeting  struck  them  both  as  a  pity. 

149 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Meanwhile  Alison  and  Harold  passed  on,  and, 
finishing  with  the  first  hole,  came  out  upon  the  open 
cliff  and  the  sea. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Alison  in  her  abrupt  way, 
"why  we  should  have  hesitated  to  believe  our  eyes, 
just  because  our  fathers  were  playing  with  the  lady 
of  last  night — it's  quite  absurd." 

"Yet  we  did,"  returned  Harold,  "and,  knowing 
our  fathers,  I'm  not  surprised  that  we  did  I" 

"No,"  answered  Alison,  "perhaps  you  are  right." 

It  is  part  of  the  lovable  confidence  of  youth  that 
every  child,  despite  the  proverb,  is  convinced  that 
it  knows  its  own  father. 

In  their  turn  they  had  breached  the  pit  hole,  the 
woods  behind  them  and  the  great  green  slope  in 
front. 

Harold  turned  suddenly  to  her. 

"Alison,  darling,"  he  said,  "you  do  love  me,  don't 
you?" 

"Dear  boy,"  she  answered,  "why  should  you 
doubt  it?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  ...  I  don't.  Only  you  ... 
your're  so  splendidly  efficient,  Alison,  carrying  out 
our  ideas  about  it  all.  I'm  afraid  I'm  not  so  strong 
as  you.  I  have  to  keep  on  remembering  the  wood." 

She  looked  swiftly  round,  gauging  their  solitude. 
Then  she  kissed  him,  suddenly. 

"That  is  to  help  your  memory,  boyl"  she  cried 
gaily. 

150 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

The  kiss  whirled  him  away  to  those  wonderful 
moments  under  the  silvered  trees.  Their  wooing, 
tarnished  ever  so  little  by  the  delicate  common- 
place of  her  treatment  of  it,  in  public,  became  real  to 
him  again.  Of  course,  he  thought,  she  was  right. 
They  need  share  none  of  this  ecstacy  with  those 
others.  With  them,  the  sisters  and  the  cousins  and 
the  aunts,  all  that  counted,  all  that  gave  them  a 
second-hand,  unreasonable  pleasure,  were  the  forms 
and  ceremonies,  the  silly  fact — not  the  miraculous, 
unique  emotion  behind  it. 

So  thought  the  boy,  and  drove  his  ball  lustily,  far 
over  the  edge  of  the  pit. 

Alison  too,  opening  her  muscular  shoulder,  easily 
carried  the  distance. 

As  they  walked  up  the  hill,  she  laughed  suddenly. 

"I  thought  of  a  phrase  last  night  in  bed,"  she 
told  him,  "a  phrase  which  pleased  me,  because  it 
summed  up  what  I  mean  about  all  the  people  who 
have  and  who  will  congratulate  us.  All  the  people 
who  will  send  presents,  and  say  it's  not  so  pretty  a 
wedding  as  the  last  they  attended  .  ,  .  oh,  all 
the  people,  Harold!" 

"What  was  it?"  he  asked. 

"  'The  licensed  audience  of  love,'  "  she  answered, 
solemnly,  then  burst  into  laughter. 

"But  of  course,"  she  added,  "I  realized  it  wasn't 
really  a  very  good  phrase,  because  it's  just  the  kind 
that  Daddy  would  love  for  a  third  leader." 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

She  laughed  again  merrily. 

Oh,  thought  the  boy,  this  was  surely  the  right  way 
to  win  the  game  of  life ! 

Had  they  not  mastered  the  rules  before  starting 
to  play? 

His  heart  bounded  to  meet  hers,  completely  con- 
fident in  them  both,  as  she  squared  herself  for  her 
second  shot. 

Thus  youth;  using  the  telescope  of  wisdom  but 
omitting  to  discover  at  which  is  the  right  end  to 
apply  the  eye. 


152 


CHAPTER  X. 

Some  few  days  later,  Ted  Willis  was  sitting  on 
the  stones  beside  the  water,  leisurely  mending  the 
broken  ribs  of  a  lobster  pot.  He  hummed  to  him- 
self a  queer,  formless  little  tune,  the  lilt  of  which 
would  defy  memory,  but  the  motif  was  one  of  sad- 
ness. So  much  so  indeed,  that  at  last,  he  set  down 
his  work  and  lay  back  upon  the  beach,  staring  up 
at  the  sky.  Vague,  half-discovered  longings  were 
at  work  in  his  brain,  those  big  embracing  emotions, 
which  surged  up  in  him  now  and  again,  carrying 
him  outside  himself,  magicking  him  far  away  from 
the  shabby  deep-sea  fisherman  that  he  was.  Some- 
times these  moods  which  seized  him  would  be,  as  it 
were,  maelstroms  of  wild  happiness:  happiness 
without  a  cause,  absolute.  Then  he  would  sing  one 
of  those  untutored  but  triumphant  songs,  which 
Charles  and  Peter  had  heard  not  many  nights  since. 
At  such  times  he  seemed  to  be  admitted  to  a  fellow- 
ship in  the  general  joy  of  things;  to  become  one  of 
the  immortals  who  have  no  need  of  a  jest  to  make 
them  laugh.  But  now  the  pendulum  had  swung  the 
other  way,  and  he  had  taken  sable  sadness  as  his 
mate,  though  there  had  been  no  tragedy  to  hasten 
their  embraces.  Misery  and  Pity,  Laughter  and 
Gladness,  seemed,  on  these  occasions,  to  become 

153 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

actual  beings,  forcing  him,  a  willing  victim,  into 
their  company. 

If  this  is  madness,  Willis  was  mad:  but  at  least, 
when  the  fingers  of  that  consciousness  so  much 
greater  than  his  own  frame,  touched  his  soul,  the 
old  man  was  possessed  of  one  great,  tremendous 
impulse,  the  impulse  to  make,  for  sorrow  or  gaiety, 
the  whole  world  kin.  In  this  mood  he  gazed  at  the 
sky,  and  at  this  moment  someone  sat  down  beside 
him  on  the  stones,  as  softly  and  as  silently  as  those 
same  invisible  fingers  had  but  now  brushed  across 
his  second  self. 

"All  that  you  hate  in  the  sky,"  a  voice  breathed 
in  his  ear,  "is  the  knowledge  that  you  cannot  see  the 
end  of  it!"  The  old  man,  for  a  moment,  hardly 
believed  that  the  voice  was  real;  it  might,  indeed, 
have  been  only  an  echo  in  his  mind.  Then,  plunging 
back,  from  the  uncharted  spaces  in  which  he  had 
been  travelling,  to  the  irk  of  the  stones  in  his  back, 
and  the  splash  of  the  waves  at  his  feet,  he  knew 
that  the  voice  was  as  real  as  the  pebbles  and  the 
water. 

He  gathered  his  limbs  together  gracefully,  like  a 
sailor,  sprang  to  his  feet  and  pulled  off  his  hat. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  "if  it  wasn't  a  piece  of 
impertinence  in  a  dirty  old  fisherman,  I'd  tell  you 
that  you  were  a  female  wizard !" 

The  Lady  of  the  Links  pmiled  and  threw  ja  stone 
into  the  water. 

154 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Long  words,"  she  said,  "and  strange  words  for 
a  fisherman." 

The  sentence  was  almost  a  question.  At  least,  to 
Willis,  it  appeared  to  require  an  answer. 

"I've  travelled  a  long  way;  I've  lived  a  long  time 
— I  don't  know  who  my  father  was,"  he  said,  hardly 
knowing  how  to  reply. 

But  she  seemed  to  understand,  for  she  nodded, 
and  scooped  out  a  little  hollow  in  the  stones  beside 
her. 

"As  an  old  campaigner,"  she  said,  "you  ought  to 
have  known  the  value  of  that — "  She  indicated  with 
a  delicate  fore-finger  the  hole  she  had  made. 

Ted  Willis  smiled  and  lay  down  again  beside  her, 
worming  his  body  comfortably  into  the  hollow. 

"It  would  be  fearfully  rude,"  he  said,  "to  tell  you 
that  you  were  a  queer  fish;  but  somehow  I  can't 
treat  you  as  a  lady.  .You  know  a  bit  too  much,  I 
suppose." 

She  smiled. 

"On  the  same  count,"  she  answered,  "I  have  not 
even  attempted  to  treat  you  as  a  fisherman." 

"Ah,  then  you  know,"  he  said,  "that  I  am  the 
local  'character',?" 

He  smiled  at  his  own  words.  So  many  visitors 
had  patronized  him  out  of  curiosity.  The  old  man 
knew  this  well  enough,  for,  unlike  the  cities,  it  is 
impossible  to  live  in  a  village  and  not  to  know  the 
exact  role  which  you  .arc  filling.  - 

'155 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

She  laughed. 

"The  incredible  longshoreman !"  she  said.  "Well, 
I  can  quite  believe  it,  though,  as  a  matter  of  fact  I 
knew  nothing  at  all,  for  I  have  never  been  here 
before." 

"I  was  wondering,"  he  returned,  slowly,  "why  I 
did  not  know  your  face.  'Tis  a  sure  thing,"  he  went 
on,  with  one  of  his  odd  slips  back  into  the  argot  of 
the  beach,  "  'Tis  a  sure  thing  ye  do  no  want  my 
company,  the  same  way  as  those  others;  for  to 
them  I'm  a  bit  of  local  colour,  as  they  call  it,  like 
the  red  on  the  cliffs  I" 

"I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  "that  I  have  too  much 
impulse  in  my  composition.  I  saw  you  staring  at 
the  sky,  and  I  had  an  idea  that  you  were  feeling 
mad  because  it's  not  just  a  ceiling,  with  a  room 
above,  that  you  know  quite  well." 

He  sighed. 

"You  are  a  wonderfully  understanding  thing,"  he 
returned.  "I  mean  no  offence.  Maybe,  that's  near 
enough  to  what  I  was  thinking,  though  it  was  less 
fine  than  the  way  you  put  it,  I'm  afraid.  Just  a 
mood." 

She  nodded  smiling. 

"It  gave  an  introduction,  anyway,"  she  said. 
"Tell  me,  do  you  know  Mr.  Cutman  and  Mr.  Mar- 
gett?" 

"Well  enough,"  he  answered.  "They  have  been 
here  every  summer  time  for  .  .  .  is  it  twenty- 
five  years,  or  twenty-six? — I  can't  remember." 

156 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Near  enough,"  she  said,  and,  under  her  breath, 
"enough  to  explain,  without  anything  else." 

"Two  very  nice  gentlemen,"  Ted  Willis  was  say- 
ing, "you  have  met  them?" 

"We  are  staying  at  the  same  hotel,"  she  returned. 
"What  do  you  know  of  them?" 

The  fisherman  raised  himself  and  hugged  his 
knees. 

"No  more  than  you,  madam,"  he  said,  "if  I  am 
any  judge  I" 

"As  I  thought,"  she  smiled  to  him,  "you  are  a  re- 
markable man.  I  only  asked,  because  it  struck  me 
that  they  were  unhappy." 

The  old  man  did  not  move ;  he  gazed  intently  at 
the  water's  edge. 

"The  lips  of  Mr.  Margett  and  the  eyes  of  Mr. 
Cutman,"  he  murmured  to  himself.  But  she  caught 
the  words  nevertheless. 

"Certainly,"  she  whispered,  "I  was  not  deceived 
in  you.  But  I  ought  not  to  ask  you  about  other  folk. 
I  should  have  known  that  you  are  too  big  a  man  to 
tell  me.  I  am  sorry." 

Ted  Willis  rose>  and  turned  his  back  upon  the 
sea. 

"I  know  nothing,"  he  said.  "They  have  been 
very  good  friends  to  me." 

His  fine  old  eyes  fixed  her,  sternly. 

"It  is  a  complete  answer,"  she  returned.  "But  I 
mean  them  no  harm." 

"I  know  it,"  he  answered  shortly. 

157 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

She  looked  past  him,  at  the  sun  dancing  on  the 
surface  of  the  water. 

"Take  me  out  for  a  sail,"  she  said,  and  he  bowed. 

This  was  the  business  of  his  life. 

She  sat  beside  him  in  the  stern.  All  the  time  he 
was  subtly  conscious  that  this  passenger  had  little  in 
common  with  the  usual  people  who  patronised  the 
offer  of  "a  sail  in  the  bay." 

She  talked,  but  her  talk  was  not  like  that  of  those 
others.  Her  conversation  seemed  to  come  to  him  in 
scraps,  like  the  jumbled  creations  of  his  own  mind. 
"The  sea,"  she  had  said,  "is  very  lonely — even  in  a 
fishing  boat  in  the  bay — the  sea  throws  you  back  on 
yourself — don't  you  lose  the  sense  that  you  are  part 
of  a  community?  Don't  you  begin  to  feel  the  real- 
ity of  being  part  of  a  universe?  That's  the  sea." 

This  was  the  nature  of  her  conversation,  and 
something  in  himself  responded  to  it.  Her  being 
seemed  to  swim  within  the  orbit  of  his  own.  Their 
souls  marched  together;  after  many  years,  the  old 
man  felt  again  the  elation  of  a  great  friendship. 

Then  he  found  himself  once  more  on  the  beach, 
gazing  at  the  sky. 

His  brain  whirled  dumbly  at  the  suddenness  of 
the  transition.  Of  course  he  must  have  beached  his 
boat,  run  her  up  the  shingle  with  the  aid  of  the  usual 
shore-loungers — secured  her — yes,  indeed,  there  she 
was,  half  way  up  the  beach.  So  strong  then  had 
been  the  personality  of  his  passenger  that  all  these 

158 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

everyday  exercises  had  been  performed  trance-like, 
leaving  no  trace  upon  his  memory. 

Nor  could  he  remember  lying  down  again  upon 
the  stones  and  looking  at  the  heavens.  Only,  as  his 
brain  seemed  to  fall  back  to  him  out  of  that  same 
sky,  he  did  experience  a  feeling  that  someone,  or 
something,  had  been  very  much  in  touch  with  him — 
purposely  in  touch,  seeking,  as  he  vaguely  imagined, 
some  sort  of  information. 

Whether  he  had  given  that  information,  or  not, 
he  could  not  say.  Instinctively,  he  hoped  that  he 
had  not.  Then,  remembering  the  passenger,  he  was 
not  sure  that  this  really  was  what  he  hoped. 

He  looked  round,  half  expecting  her  to  be  still 
beside  him.  But  there  was  no  one  there. 

He  could  not  remember  her  saying  goodbye  to 
him.  There  was  no  money  in  his  pocket.  And  then, 
his  eyes  ranging  along  the  sea  front,  he  thought  he 
saw  her,  sitting  under  a  parasol,  a  little  way  along 
the  cliff,  reading  a  book.  The  old  man  passed  his 
hand  across  his  forehead  slowly.  Then  he  collected 
his  forgotten  lobster-pot  and  strolled  up  the  beach, 
He  was  puzzled. 

And,  in  a  different  sense,  Loveday  Weare  and 
Joan  Margett  were  puzzled  too.  During  the  inter- 
vening days,  between  the  afternoon  foursome  and 
the  mystification  of  the  fisherman  they  had  reached 
speaking  terms  with  the  strange  lady.  They  had, 
that  is  to  say,  arrived  at  the  stage  where  it  appeared 

159 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

discourteous  not  to  remark  that  it  "was  a  hot  day," 
or  that  it  "looked  like  rain,"  when  they  passed  her 
in  the  hall  after  breakfast.  But  that  appeared  as 
far  as  intimacy  was  likely  to  go.  There  was  no  sign 
of  the  development  of  the  usual  holiday  friendship, 
always  so  keen  and  so  complete,  until,  at  the  little 
junction  on  the  main  line,  two  separate  trains  seem 
to  swallow  up  the  different  lives  into  their  own  pri- 
vate maws,  as  utterly  and  finally  as  a  funeral  di- 
vorces two  bodies. 

"You  see,"  said  Loveday,  lying  back  in  a  deck 
chair  on  the  verandah  of  the  hotel,  "there  is  some- 
thing not  quite  obvious  about  her."  She  paused, 
smoothing  out  her  skirt  with  fingers  which  touched 
the  folds  caressingly.  This  sense  of  delight,  in  the 
mere  feel  of  things,  was  one  of  the  few  pleasures 
which  no  one  could  deny  to  her. 

"Perhaps,"  she  added,  "that  is  enough  to  explain 
what  is  happening." 

Joan  shifted  her  position  uneasily. 

"You  are  hinting  at  things  again,"  she  said. 

The  other,  with  a  quick  gesture  of  the  hand  re- 
pelled the  evasion. 

"No!  no,  Joan,"  she  said,  that  is  simply  cow- 
ardice." 

"Well,"  muttered  Joan,  "you  have  so  little  to 
lose." 

"I  dare  say.     There  is  nothing  to  envy  in  that." 

Joan's  quick  sympathies  responded  immediately. 

160 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Oh,  I  am  sorry,  Loveday,"  she  said.  "I  never 
thought!  I  was  hurt." 

"I  know,  dear.  I  wish  I  could  be  hurt.  But  I  do 
understand  what  you  feel.  Only,  is  it  any  use  not  to 
face  it?  If  it  is,  then,  by  all  means  let  us  look  the 
other  way." 

Joan  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  she  sighed. 

"No,"  she  said,  "it  is  no  use  not  to  face  it." 

"I  knew,"  murmured  the  other,  "that  the  storm 
was  coming,  but  I  had  no  idea  it  was  going  to  be 
complicated  like  this." 

"Do  you  think,"  asked  Joan,  steadying  her  voice 
pitifully,  "that  they  are  in  love?" 

"Men  keep  that  capacity  longer  than  women," 
answered  Loveday,  "the  capacity,  I  mean,  for  .  .  . 
for  pretending  they  are  still  boys !" 

Joan  shrugged  her  shoulders,  irritably. 

"Oh,  I  know  that,"  she  said.  "Are  they  .  .  . 
or  do  they  think  they  are,  in  love  ?  Anyway,  what's 
the  difference?"  she  added  hopelessly. 

Loveday  answered  slowly,  as  one  choosing  her 
words. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "Not  exactly  in  love, 
perhaps :  but  I  think  they  are  trying  to  recreate  the 
.  .  .  the  original  thrill,  with  some  .  .  .  some 
drug  which  she  can  give  them." 

Her  companion  nodded. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  and  a  world  of  misery  es- 
caped in  the  monosyllable.  Suddenly,  with  one  of 

161 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

her  startling  gestures,  she  sat  bolt  upright,  flinging 
her  arms  out  above  her  head. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "I  wish  I  was  Emily,  comfort- 
ably blind!" 

Loveday  nodded  in  her  turn. 

"And  Charles  Cutman,"  she  said,  "is  even  more 
drugged  than  Peter." 

Joan  rose,  and  paced  up  and  down  the  little  bal- 
cony, as  if  caged  in  by  invisible  bars. 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  at  last,  "I  believe  Alison  is 
right,  after  all !  She  is  deliberately  avoiding  all  this 
by  cutting  out  the  Romance  It's  better  to  be  just 
competent,  than  unhappy  1" 

"She  has  yet  to  prove  her  theory,"  replied  the 
other. 

But  Joan  was  not  to  be  comforted. 

"Oh,"  she  cried  again,  "what  do  I  care?  What 
do  I  care?  My  troubles  are  facts,  not  theories! 
Alison  is  strong  and  young!" 

"Young  enough  to  devise  her  own  tragedies,  con- 
fidently; just  as  we  were!" 

Loveday  Weare's  voice  seemed  tired,  its  tone 
hinted  that  she  was  not  far  off  becoming  an  old 
woman.  Joan  started  for  a  moment  at  the  phenom- 
enon; then,  in  a  rush,  her  own  unhappiness  surged 
over  her  again. 

"I  don't  care,"  she  said.  "I  love  her,  and  she  is 
my  child,  but  I  don't  care.  My  own  affairs  have 
come  so  much  nearer  to  me  than  .  .  .  her  fu- 
ture!" 

162 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

She  sank  back  again  into  her  chair. 

"I  suppose  it  is  wrong  and  that  I  am  an  unnatural 
mother,"  she  said.  "But — again,  I  don't  care.  Not 
now." 

She  suddenly  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  Love- 
day  slid  an  arm  around  her  shoulder. 

"Joan,  dear,"  she  said,  "I — I  may  be  wrong." 

She  saw  the  other,  forcing  the  tears  back  with  her 
palms,  shake  her  head. 

"I  can't  comfort  you,"  she  said,  "at  least,  only  a 
little.  I  do  feel,  somehow,  that  this  woman  .  .  . 
isn't  quite  like  other  women.  I  do  feel  that  she  is 
not  going  to  rob  you  in  quite  the  same  way." 

Joan  Margett  looked  up,  her  eyes  hard,  almost 
fanatical. 

"Oh,"  she  answered,  "I  know  what  you  mean. 
And  you  think  I  am  as  small  as  that  I  No!  No! 
No!  I  love  Peter,  because  .  .  .  because  he's  a 
perpetual  baby.  I  love  him  because  he  and  I  have 
been  very,  very  private  friends.  I  love  him  because 
I  know,  that,  even  if  .  .  .  if  he  left  me  for  ever — 
he  would  always  be  really  mine.  If  something  hap- 
pened to  take  away  his  body  from  me,  for  a  night 

.  .  a  week  ...  a  month ;  that  would  make 
no  difference.  It  isn't  Peter's  body  that  I  love,  it's 
Peter!" 

She  stopped,  out  of  breath  with  her  own  self-reve- 
lation. Loveday  stared  at  her. 

"And  I  thought,"  she  murmured,  "that  you  too 
were  a  Victorian.  I  had  put  you  at  1880  and  Emily 
at  1845  I" 

163 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

But  her  friend,  wrapt  up  in  her  own  distress,  had 
not  heard. 

Loveday  rose. 

"At  least,"  she  said,  "you  have  realized  it  and 
you  have  faced  it.  You  can't  do  more." 

Joan  turned  to  her  and  nodded.  Then  she  sat 
down  again  in  her  chair,  and  picked  up  her  book, 
opening  it  at  the  place  marked. 

"Sorry  I  burst  out  like  that,"  she  said  shortly. 

"That's  all  right,"  answered  the  other.  She  real- 
ized that  this  was  the  inevitable  end  to  that  kind  of 
revelation;  to  round  it  off  in  the  talk  of  school-girls. 
She  realized,  too,  that  Joan  wanted  to  be  left  alone. 
As  she  passed  through  the  open  window  into  the 
drawing-room  she  heard  the  book  drop  from  her 
friend's  hand. 


164 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Here  indeed  was  a  situation,  ludicrous  enough! 
Two  men,  past  middle-age,  fighting  desperately 
against  an  attack  of  boy's  love.  It  was  as  if,  at  fifty, 
they  had  all  of  a  sudden  developed  teething  rash. 
For  neither  Charles  nor  Peter  was  foolish  enough, 
in  the  beginning,  to  pretend  to  himself  that  this  was 
a  grand  passion.  Yet  the  emotion  was  sufficiently 
compelling  for  all  that.  It  had  indeed  all  the  pain- 
ful fascination  which  throws  undergraduates  into 
ecstacies  of  gloom  and  despair,  though  they  have 
seen  a  face  but  once,  nor  do  the  chances  point 
towards  their  ever  catching  sight  of  it  again.  But 
there  was  a  difference.  For  the  undergraduate, 
over-estimating  his  pains,  is  unable  to  value  that 
which  he  is  actually  experiencing.  He  does  not  know 
that  this  very  folly  is  the  seed  and  life  of  romance, 
that  this  fever  which  he  takes  so  much  trouble  to 
hide  from  the  hoarse  laughter  of  an  uncle  as  well  as 
the  kind  smile  of  a  mother  is  second  only  to  the  great 
discovery  itself,  and  is,  indeed,  a  treasure  to  be 
cherished  still,  even  after  that  discovery  is  made. 
The  fever  passes,  and  he  is  the  first  to  make  fun  of 
the  next  victim.  Charles  and  Peter  themselves  had 
suffered  these  things  as  desperately  and  laughed  at 
the  sufferings  of  others  as  merrily  as  any  of  their 

165 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

kind.  But,  by  reason  of  the  disappointment  and  the 
sorrow  of  the  waning  thrill,  they  had  learnt  to  long 
once  more  for  the  absurd  distress  and  the  ridiculous 
joy  of  irrational  romance.  They  had  learnt  at  last 
that,  without  this  disease  of  boyhood  and  girlhood, 
love  runs  a  terrible  risk,  the  risk  of  becoming  simply 
an  amiable  custom.  Perhaps  they  were  peculiar  in 
wanting  more.  It  is  possible  that  the  majority  of 
the  men  and  women  they  knew  never  bothered  their 
heads  to  keep  romance  up  to  concert  pitch.  Sub- 
consciously, it  may  be,  most  engaged  couples,  even 
on  the  way  to  church,  never  expect  such  perfection. 
Love  does  not  die — oh  no  I  they  would  deny  this 
Indignantly — it  does  not  die  but  it  dulls,  becomes 
less  violent,  less  tremendous,  smooths  itself  down, 
by  long  contact,  into  a  sweet-running,  durable  ma- 
chine. But  Charles,  and  Peter,  too  (less  emphatic- 
ally, because  he  hated  to  confess  a  weakness), 
loathed  the  idea  of  the  machine.  In  both  their  lives 
their  love,  their  women,  their  homes,  had  been  the 
biggest,  the  most  adventurous  thing.  If  that  ad- 
venture disappeared  there  would  be  nothing  left  but 
a  yearly  income  and  a  respectable  funeral,  nothing 
left  except  to  watch  with  the  irritating  or  kindly 
eye  of  an  uncle,  the  happiness  of  youngsters. 

And  upon  the  heels  of  this  emotion,  when,  indeed, 
it  had  reached  its  zenith,  the  strange  lady  had  ap- 
peared. 

Somehow,  in  these  two,  presumably  steadied  and 
settled-down  men,  she  had  managed  to  reawaken 

166 


WHERE  YOUE  TREASURE  IS 

the  romantic  ambitions  of  the  very  young  which  do 
not  need,  but  even  repel  any  satisfaction.  Thus,  in 
the  beginning,  they  wanted  nothing  of  the  strange 
lady,  nothing  except  that  she  should  be  there  and 
serve  as  the  spur  to  their  imaginations.  She  was 
simply  supplying,  like  a  miraculous  fount,  just  that 
elusive  emotion  which  had  gone. 

It  is  possible  that  in  their  own  most  private  selves 
they  knew  this  well  enough,  but  it  is  certain  that  the 
knowledge  made  no  difference  to  the  actuality  of 
their  distress.  They  were  as  jealous  of  one  another 
as  two  schoolboys  over  a  rare  postage-stamp.  They 
were  as  shy  about  their  condition  as  a  woman  with 
a  child.  Had  they  a  suspicion  that  their  wives  even 
guessed  at  the  affair,  it  is  possible  that,  from  an 
utter  inability  to  tolerate  their  blushes  being  seen, 
Charles  and  Peter  would  have  done  something  des- 
perate— shipped  before  the  mast,  perhaps,  and  put 
ashore  somewhere  in  the  Pacific,  gasping  at  their 
own  folly,  and  dazed  with  astonishment  at  their 
behaviour. 

Meanwhile,  here  was  the  embarrassing  ideal  in 
daily  contact  with  them  both.  They  feared  its 
presence  as  much  as  they  would  have  mourned  its 
departure.  And  still  they  accepted  every  intimacy 
with  it  which  Chance  threw  in  their  way.  Charles, 
for  instance,  had  played  a  whole  round  of  golf  with 
her,  alone,  and  had  succumbed,  ecstatically,  to  that 
miraculous  putting.  Peter,  secretly  astonished  at 
the  weakness  of  his  own  duplicity,  had  pretended  to 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

miss  the  remainder  of  the  party  on  an  after-dinner 
walk,  and  had  sat,  for  one  amazing  hour,  with  her 
upon  the  balcony.  On  this  occasion  Charles,  return- 
ing to  the  hotel  in  the  rearguard  of  the  party,  with 
Emily's  arm  resting  happily  on  his  own,  realized 
what  had  happened  and  came  as  near  to  murderous 
impulse  as  he  was  capable  of  coming.  His  hatred 
of  Peter,  momentary  but  none  the  less  violent  for 
that,  appalled  him  by  the  intensity  of  its  reality. 
He  squeezed  Emily's  arm:  a  mechanical  manifes- 
tation of  affection,  which  was  actually  a  gesture  of 
self-defence.  It  was  hideous  to  him  to  realize,  as  he 
felt  her  answering  squeeze,  the  fearful  disloyalty  in 
his  mind;  still  more  awful,  the  knowledge  that  it  was 
stronger  than  himself.  At  that  moment  his  whole 
life  appeared  to  him  as  having  been  a  mistake.  He 
told  himself  that  he  had  missed  everything,  missed 
the  whole  meaning  of  his  existence,  by  some  ridicu- 
lous, unpreventable  mistake,  years  and  years 
ago.  .  .  . 

Then,  the  very  next  afternoon,  alone  on  his  way 
up  to  the  links,  he  had  come  upon  the  strange  lady 
again,  watching  the  mullet  over  the  edge  of  the 
bridge,  and,  half  an  hour  late  for  his  game,  had 
arrived  at  the  Club  House  with  a  ready  excuse  and 
a  light  heart  once  more. 

So  backwards  and  forwards,  these  ridiculous  men, 
set  and  middle-aged,  experienced  the  mad  emotional 
see-saw  of  boyish  adoration.  Had  either  of  them 
been  alone  with  the  phenomenon,  he  might  have 

168 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

stopped  to  think  that  this  tempest  had  blown  up  in 
an  incredibly  short  time,  that  he  had  actually  only 
been  in  touch  with  the  divinity  for  a  very  few  days. 
He  might  have  considered  this,  and,  considering, 
crushed  the  whole  business  back  into  an  absurdity. 
But  the  element  of  competition  took  the  affair  into 
a  higher,  more  strident  key.  Both  men  were  jealous, 
and,  such  is  the  insane  power  of  jealousy,  neither 
stopped  to  think  of  anything  save  the  temporary 
advantage,  imaginary  or  real,  of  the  other.  But 
jealousy  between  friends  and  jealousy  between 
strangers  are  very  different  things.  Charles  and 
Peter  had  known  each  other  intimately  for  years. 
Any  prolonged  pretence  between  them  was  impos- 
sible. At  breakfast,  on  the  beach,  at  lunch,  on  the 
links,  the  assumption  between  the  two  that  this  was 
the  normal  August  holiday  soon  became  grotesque. 
If  all  the  diplomatists  were  friends  of  twenty  years 
standing,  war  would  be  impossible.  They  would  be 
driven  into  telling  one  another  the  simple  truth, 
through  sheer  inability  to  deceive.  Thus  Charles 
and  Peter,  left  alone  one  late  afternoon  in  the  bil- 
liard room,  Loxbury  and  the  doctor  preferring  the 
sea  air,  first  eyed  each  other  uncomfortably,  then 
eyed  everything  else  equally  uncomfortably  and  fell 
to  praying,  each  to  his  own  god,  that  the  other 
would  be  the  first  to  break  this  extremely  awkward 
and  difficult  piece  of  ice. 

The  Editor,  with  his  passion  for  strength,  broke 
it  violently  and  completely.    He  banged  the  red  ball 

169 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

into  a  pocket,  thus  conclusively  terminating  the 
game ;  then  he  threw  his  cue  on  to  a  sofa. 

"Well,  Cutman,"  he  said  shortly,  "what  about 
it?" 

The  note  of  challenge  lay  in  the  surname.  The 
barrister  had  been  "Charles"  to  Peter  Margett 
these  many  years.  The  temptation  to  stave  off  the 
attack  by  the  conventional  "What  on  earth  do  you 
mean,  old  man?"  was  overwhelming,  but  Charles 
was  beyond  the  futility  of  such  a  remark  as  between 
these  two. 

He  noticed  that  Peter  had  seated  himself  in  an 
arm-chair  and  was  glaring  at  him  defiantly.  He  felt 
inclined  to  be  theatrical,  to  laugh  and  shrug  his 
shoulders,  walking  impressively  across  to  the  end  of 
the  room  and  replacing  his  cue  calmly  in  the  rack. 
But  he  could  not.  He  found  it  impossible  to  pose, 
opposite  that  face  which  he  knew  so  well — it  would 
be  childish.  Besides,  Peter  would  see  through  it, 
would  know  that  it  was  only  a  pathetic,  silly  effort 
to  gain  time.  After  all,  Peter  had  gone  for  the 
problem  bald-headed.  It  was  up  to  Charles  to  do 
the  same. 

"Well,"  he  said  slowly,  "it  can't  lead  anywhere, 
Peter,  so — what  does  it  matter?" 

"Can't  lead  anywhere?"  rasped  the  Editor. 
"You  say  that  because  you  half  hope  that  it  can't. 
But  how  do  you  know  where  it  is  going  to  lead?" 

"But  it's  ridiculous,"  muttered  the  barrister. 
"Look  at  us — two  middle-aged  family  men  I" 

170 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Do  you  feel  a  middle-aged  family  man,  when 
you  are  up  on  the  cliff  with  her?" 

Peter's  voice  was  a  positive  snarl. 

"Don't  bark  at  me,  Margett,"  returned  Charles 
angrily.  "I  suppose  you  shed  twenty  years  too, 
that  evening  on  the  balcony!" 

"Well,"  snapped  the  Editor,  "I'm  not  ashamed 
of  it.  I  could  have  gone  on  in  the  old  way;  I  had 
the  strength — strength  enough,  at  least,  to  school 
myself  to  it.  Fate's  chucked  this  in  my  road,  and — 
it's  no  longer  a  question  of  just  my  own  ideas.  You 
say  it  can't  lead  anywhere !  By  God,  Charles,  I  say 
it  can !  And  because  I  am  able  to  say  that,  my  need 
must  be  greater  than  yours!" 

He  was  on  his  feet,  his  eyes  blazing.  His  chal- 
lenge, his  certainty  that  his  own  longings  were  bigger 
and  more  insistent  than  his  friend's,  fired  Charles 
with  sudden  fury.  Why  should  this  man  presume 
to  suffer  more  than  he  ?  Why  should  he  be  crushed 
by  the  brutality  of  Peter's  headlines,  like  the  public 
whose  subscriptions  to  his  paper  made  Peter's  living 
possible? 

He  became,  all  of  a  sudden,  passionately  angry. 

"Damn  you!"  he  cried.  "You  assume  too  much. 
I  try  to  fight  against  this  thing  and  for  that  reason 
you  say  that  it  means  nothing  to  me  I  You're  a  fool. 
You  are  so  used  to  imposing  your  absurd  ideas  on 
a  public  who  can't  answer  back,  that  you  imagine 
you  can  do  the  same  with  me.  Well,  I  tell  you,  you 
can't  I  This  thing  has  happened  to  you  and  to  me 

171 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

and  you've  chosen  to  rip  it  to  pieces  between  us. 
All  right,  Peter,  you  shall!  I'll  have  no  damned 
headline  and  bluff  from  you.  If  we  are  going  to 
talk  about  this,  we'll  talk  straight  and  honestly. 
I'll  start  by  telling  you  the  truth.  Ridiculous  or 
not,  I'd  die — or  do  whatever  there  is  that's  worse 
than  dying — for  her  to-night!" 

The  Editor  did  not  move.  Then  slowly,  a  little 
wearily,  he  sank  back  again  into  his  chair.  For 
some  moments  he  was  silent,  looking  past  Charles  at 
the  marking  board  on  the  wall.  When  he  spoke, 
the  note  of  anger  in  his  voice  was  replaced  by  dis- 
appointment. 

"I'd  hoped,"  he  said  simply,  "that  you  did  not 
care  so  much." 

"Do  you  imagine,"  returned  Charles,  "that  I  have 
not  hoped  and  prayed  I  did  not  care  so  much?" 

"Thank  God,"  muttered  the  Editor,  "the  holidays 
will  soon  be  over." 

"Ah!"  said  the  other,  "then  even  the  strong  man 
of  Fleet  Street  recognizes  that  headlong  flight  is 
sometimes  the  most  desirable  thing!" 

The  sneer  in  his  voice  was  not  disguised,  for 
Charles  was  still  angry  at  his  friend's  attempt  to 
treat  his  own  case  as  unworthy  of  serious  attention. 
But  he  softened  immediately,  seeing  the  trouble  in 
the  strong  man's  eyes. 

After  all,  they  were  very  old  friends. 

"It's  not  so  much  the  women,"  Peter  was  saying, 
"as  the  children.  If  they  guessed  I  That  would 
seem  a  bigger  failure  somehow!" 

172 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"How  could  they  guess?"  asked  the  other. 

"My  God,  Charlie,"  answered  Peter,  "the  mod- 
ern girl  and  boy  guess  everything.  They  know 
nothing  and  they  guess  everything." 

"If  Harold's  so  damned  wise  about  life — "  be- 
gan Charles  stoutly,  but  the  other  cut  him  short. 

"It's  not  that  they  are  wise,"  he  said,  "it  is  that 
they  are  so  confoundedly  sure  of  themselves  that 
they  don't  think  they  need  to  be  wise." 

This  was  an  amazing  confession  for  Peter, 
apostle  of  the  gospel  of  strength.  Only  an 
emotional  crisis  like  the  present  could  possibly  have 
produced  such  a  heresy.  But  Charles  let  it  go.  The 
waters  in  which  they  were  now  sailing  were  too 
deep  and  too  treacherous  to  admit  of  any  fooling 
about  with  the  boat.  Sneers  and  jibes  were  out  of 
place. 

"And  supposing  they  do  guess?"  he  asked. 

Peter  clenched  his  hands. 

"I'd  pretty  well  hate  to  know  they  did,"  he  said, 
"and  have  to  carry  on  as  a  father !" 

"I  suppose  I  would,  too,"  answered  Charles.  "It 
seems  queer  that  they  should  appear  to  matter  more 
than  Joan  and  Emily." 

"It  is,  I  expect,"  said  the  Editor  miserably,  "that 
one  never  really  wants  respect  from  one's  wife. 
But  there  is  something  horribly  undermining  in  the 
idea  of  one's  child  finding  one  out." 

"Anyway,"  muttered  the  other,  "what  does  it 
matter?  Harold  and  Alison  are  going  their  own 
road  with  sufficient  determination,  as  things  are." 

173 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"But  if  they  knew  this,"  said 'Peter  grimly,  "I 
rather  think  that  it  would  considerably  strengthen 
that  determination." 

For  some  minutes  both  men  were  silent.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  their  thoughts  were  identical. 
They  were  looking  back  upon  the  early  years  of 
these  two  whom  they  still,  in  unguarded  moments, 
regarded  as  children.  They  were  remembering  all 
those  first  ideas  about  their  duty  as  parents,  their 
duty  to  "set  an  example,"  their  innate  conviction 
that  they  could  be  held  responsible  for  what  the 
child  might  become.  Now  they  saw  that  they  might 
have  spared  themselves  those  initial  pains.  They 
knew,  well  enough,  that  had  Alison  and  Harold 
wished  to  break  every  law,  human  and  divine,  noth- 
ing on  earth,  least  of  all  any  remembrance  of  the 
behaviour  of  their  parents,  would  have  prevented 
them.  Peter  and  Charles  knew  that  their  children 
were  fond  of  them,  a  sense  of  vague  gratitude  ming- 
ling with  the  much  more  valuable  tribute  of  real 
friendship — up  to  a  point.  The  point  being  that,  in 
the  eyes  of  the  boy  and  girl,  they  were  out-of-date, 
already  set  and  fixed  in  their  outlook  upon  life  and 
their  ideas  of  its  conduct.  And  yet,  though  they 
might  resent  this  attitude  in  their  children,  on  the 
rare  occasions  upon  which  Alison  or  Harold  let  it 
slip  in  their  conversation,  they  were  now  very  loath 
to  let  it  be  known  that,  in  actual  fact,  they  were  by 
no  means  fixed  in  their  outlook  and  by  no  means  to 

174 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

be  relied  upon  in  their  standards,  out-of-date  or 
not.  It  appeared  far  better  that  their  children 
should  regard  them  as  kindly  and  amiable  men,  of 
the  day  before  yesterday. 

Charles,  at  this  point  in  the  ruminations  of  his 
mind,  fell  into  a  sudden  panic  and  started  pacing 
nervously  up  and  down  the  room. 

"Heavens  above,  Peter  I"  he  said,  "I  never  im- 
agined a  thing  like  this  could  happen  I  I  mean — to 
other  people,  of  course,  but  not  to  us  1" 

Peter  Margett  was  silent,  then  he  sat  up  suddenly, 
straight  in  his  chair. 

"The  point  is,"  he  said,  "that  it  has  happened, 
and  that  it  has  happened  to  us." 

He  rose,  facing  Charles  as  the  latter  swung 
round  to  his  words. 

"Well?"  muttered  Cutman,  uneasily. 

"I'm  cutting  out  Emily  and  Joan  and  I'm  cutting 
out  Harold  and  Alison,"  came  the  answer.  "As  far 
as  I'm  concerned,  I'm  beyond  those  things.  To 
me,  it  seems  a  question  between  us  two." 

"You  mean?  ,  „  ."  Charles  heard  his  own 
voice  putting  the  question  timidly,  though  he  felt 
that  he  knew  well  enough  what  Peter  meant. 

"I  mean  what  I  say,"  went  on  the  Editor,  roughly. 
"I  love  this  woman.  You  say  that  you  love  her, 
too.  Very  well.  That  is  what  is  between  us !" 

Charles  almost  gasped  at  the  sentence.  There 
wag  the  case,  stripped  naked,  as  Peter  stripped 

175 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

everything  naked,  and  left  without  a  shred  of  decen- 
cy, an  idea  unrestrained  and  uncovered,  but  desira- 
ble. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  slowly.  "I  love  her  too."  As 
he  faced  Peter,  seeing  the  glitter  of  a  jealous  hate 
in  his  eyes,  nothing  seemed  more  desirable  than  the 
strange  lady,  nothing  more  distant  and  divorced 
from  reality  than  Emily  and  Harold.  Unmistake- 
ably,  as  he  thought,  this  moment  found  the  pulse  of 
youth  leaping  within  him,  once  again.  Now,  at 
least,  his  fingers  were  once  more  closing  round  all 
that  hot  and  heedless  romance  which  he  had  lost. 
Even  so,  he  realized  that  Peter's  case  was  the  same, 
and  even  at  this  moment  it  struck  him  as  strange, 
that  in  this  crisis  of  their  lives,  this  effort  to  recreate 
the  past,  they  should  both  have  lighted  upon  the 
same  woman — the  same  ideal.  Later  on  he  was  to 
learn  the  significance  of  this.  Now  the  idea  escaped 
him  just  as  quickly  as  it  had  come,  and  he  concen- 
trated only  upon  the  one  fact. 

"Yes,"  he  repeated,  "I  love  her." 

And  both  men  were  certain  that  in  the  double 
confession  was  a  complete  denial,  an  absolute  over- 
throw, of  twenty  and  more  years  of  respectable 
married  life. 

Charles,  clinging  more  desperately  than  his 
friend  to  the  standard  which  he  had  subconsciously 
set  before  himself,  from  the  time  when  he  had  first 
become  a  man,  protested  against  the  sheer,  over- 
whelming strength  of  this  disaster.  For  he  was 
still  sane  enough  to  regard  it  as  a  disaster. 

176 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Peter,"  he  said,  "this  is  a  frightful  thing  which 
has  happened!" 

Then  he  caught  the  Editor's  eye,  fixing  him 
sternly,  and  knew  that  Peter  was  trying  to  read  in 
his  own  expression  whether  he,  Charles,  was  as 
seriously  tragic  in  this  debacle  of  their  affections, 
as  himself.  At  that  moment,  perhaps  for  the  first 
time,  he  realized  that  this  woman  was  the  biggest 
thing  in  his  life — the  biggest  thing  that  would  ever 
be  possible  in  his  life.  The  sudden  conviction  almost 
threw  him  off  his  balance.  His  mind  raced  madly 
through  the  whole  period  of  his  married  years, 
burlesquing  everything  like  a  buffoon,  and  arriving 
again  at  this  incredible  climax,  settled  by  some  queer 
trick,  upon  an  old  aunt  of  Emily's,  who  had  to  be 
visited  at  Kingston  about  once  a  year,  and  who  was 
always  found  reading  the  collect  for  the  day,  sitting 
opposite  an  ivory  crucifix. 

Why  the  picture  of  the  old,  yellow  face,  matching 
the  crucifix,  and  the  trembling  lips  muttering  the 
words  meaninglessly  to  herself,  should  have 
appeared  to  him  at  this  moment,  he  could  never 
have  explained.  Still  less  could  he  have  told  why 
that  picture  appeared  suddenly  and  extraordinarily 
funny.  But  it  did,  and  he  laughed  aloud,  startling 
Peter  out  of  his  concentration  upon  himself. 

"What  the  Devil  is  the  matter?"  asked  the 
Editor. 

"Nothing,"  gasped  Charles,  fighting  against  this 
hysteria.  "Nothing.  I  was  thinking  about  us 
.  .  .  and  about  an  old  aunt  of  Emily's.  About 

177 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

an  old  aunt  ...  I"  His  laughter  choked  him 
again.  Then  at  last,  he  conquered  it,  and  his  face 
became  set  and  tragic. 

"Oh,  my  God,  Peter,"  he  said,  "we  must  put  up 
some  sort  of  a  fight  against  it.'* 

"Why?    Why  should  we ?" 

The  question  came  to  him  in  the  dull  note  in 
which  a  man  expresses  his  dogged  revolution  against 
things  that  are.  Charles  could  find  no  answer  to  it. 
They  were  men,  captains  of  their  own  ships :  if  they 
counted  the  price  and  found  it  worth  while,  he  sup- 
posed they  could  set  their  course  any  way  they 
pleased. 

"We're  talking  a  great  deal  of  our  own  feelings," 
he  said,  "we  don't  seem  to  have  considered  hers." 

And  he  knew,  in  that  sentence,  that  he  had  iden- 
tified himself  with  their  common,  unconquerable 
desire. 

"Now  listen,"  Peter  was  saying,  "I  want  you  to 
know  that  this  thing  has  come  to  me  like  the  smash 
of  a  Nasmyth  hammer.  It  has  crushed  out  what  I 
was,  and  has  left  what  I  am;  what  I  am  now,  at 
this  moment.  I  tell  you  I  don't  feel  that  any  other 
moments  matter,  either  gone  or  to  come.  For  all  I 
know,  she  may  hate  me,  but  I've  got  to  go  after  her 
all  the  samel  That's  the  way  it's  got  me  I" 

Charles  accepted  the  challenge  eagerly. 

"You  aren't  alone,"  he  said.  "You've  worshipped 
strength  so  long,  Peter,  that  you've  come  to  think 
that  you  have  a  greater  share  of  it  in  yourself  than 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

you  really  have.  That's  the  same  in  any  religious 
mania.  But  I  can  tell  you  this.  In  the  thing  that 
has  come  between  us,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
twenty  years'  friendship  won't  count  that  much  I" 
He  snapped  his  fingers  derisively.  For  some  few 
seconds  Peter  stared  at  him  intently,  as  if  to  weigh 
to  the  uttermost  the  value  of  what  Charles  had 
just  said.  Then  suddenly,  as  if  satisfied,  his  body 
relaxed.  Only  his  lips  set  in  a  harder  line. 

"Very  well,  then,"  he  said,  "we  understand  one 
another."  He  turned  deliberately  and  walked  out 
of  the  room,  closing  the  door  softly  behind  him. 
And  Charles  stood  stock-still  wondering  childishly 
at  the  unbelievable  power  of  his  own  emotions. 
Now  Charles  was  fifty-seven  and  Peter  a  few  months 
more,  but  neither  of  them,  even  for  a  moment,  saw 
any  humor  in  what  had  just  happened.  Whatever 
may  have  passed  through  their  minds  when  first  the 
strange  attraction  of  this  woman  stole  in  upon  their 
perceptions;  however  much,  at  that  time,  they  had 
persuaded  themselves  that  there  was  nothing  of  the 
grand  passion,  nothing  so  compelling  and  destruc- 
tive, in  the  long-forgotten  emotions  which  had 
sprung  into  life  again  at  her  appearance,  now  all 
these  thoughts  were  gone,  swallowed  up,  not  per- 
haps, so  much  in  their  individual  passions,  as  in  the 
clash  of  those  passions,  which  had  just  taken  place. 

For  a  casus  belli  may  be  a  very  little  thing,  but 
once  the  actual  battle  has  started,  it  grows  as  if 
nourished  upon  the  food  of  the  Gods,  and  waxing 

179 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

fat  upon  conflict,  becomes  in  no  time,  the  greatest 
and  most  final  issue  in  the  world. 

At  last  Charles  sank  into  a  chair,  and  his  elbows 
upon  its  arms,  let  his  chin  fall  into  his  hands.  This 
then,  was  the  ultimate  result  of  loving  and  good 
parents,  a  properly  expensive  education,  a  youth 
filled  with  the  accepted  ideals  of  decent  men,  a  mar- 
riage blessed  by  Holy  Church,  the  thrill  of  a  lawful 
child,  and  the  passage  of  fifty-seven  years ! 

Here  he  was,  back  at  the  very  beginning  of 
things.  It  all  seemed  so  silly.  If  this  was  to  hap- 
pen, or  even  had  it  never  happened,  if  this  was  pos- 
sible, what  was  the  point  of  all  those  precious  lost 
years,  during  which  Emily  and  he,  for  the  sake  of 
laws  and  customs  which  he  felt  now  were  in  no  way 
concerned  with  the  individual  human  animal,  had 
pretended,  amicably  enough,  that  they  still  lived  in 
that  state  of  enthusiasm,  which  can  promise  to 
"love,  honour,  and  obey" — to  "have  this  woman 
as  thy  wedded  wife,  to  live  together  after  God's 
ordinance,  in  the  holy  estate  of  matrimony  .  .  . 
to  love  her,  to  comfort  her,  honour  and  keep  her 
in  sickness  and  health,  and,  forsaking  all  other,  keep 
thee  only  to  her,  so  long  as  ye  both  shall  live  .  .  ." 

"Ye  gods,"  thought  Charles  in  his  misery  (for  he 
was  miserable,  being  loyal  by  nature  and  hating  to 
break  a  contract)  "Ye  gods!  Either  the  man  who 
composed  the  marriage  service  was  the  vilest  cynic 
ever  born,  or  else  he  knew  some  secret  about  things 
which  made  it  possible.  And  if  he  did,"  the  bar- 

180 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

rister  found  himself  speaking  aloud  in  his  irritation, 
"he  ought  to  have  written  that  too.  It  ought  to  be 
in  the  prayer-book!" 

"It's  not  in  the  prayer-book,"  a  voice  said  in  his 
ear. 

Was  this  his  brain,  answering  its  own  question,  or 
had  Charles  indeed  spoken  aloud  and  was  there 
someone  answering  him?  He  started  up  in  his 
chair,  his  heart  thumping  at  the  idea  of  something 
uncanny  in  the  room.  He  saw  no  one.  Yet  he 
could  have  sworn  the  voice  was  real.  It  terrified 
him  to  think  that  his  own  mind  could  have  played 
him  such  a  trick.  Again  that  voice,  horribly  real, 
assailed  his  ears. 

"Have  you  never  thought,"  it  said,  "that  many  of 
the  finest  things  of  which  men  are  capable,  many  of 
the  loveliest  gifts  that  have  been  given  to  them,  are 
not  in  the  prayer-book — are  not  even  in  the  Bible?" 

Then,  suddenly,  Charles  realized  that  it  was  in- 
deed a  human  voice  speaking  to  him,  and  that  the 
sound  came  from  behind  his  chair.  He  rose  quickly 
and  faced  round.  Smiling  to  him,  her  hands  resting 
upon  the  back  of  the  arm  chair,  stood  the  strange 
lady. 

"By  George,"  he  said,  "You?" 

Then  he  realized  that  it  was  a  very  stupid  thing 
to  say.  She  must  have  entered  the  room,  ever  so 
quietly,  while  he  was  sitting,  his  eyes  closed,  in  the 
torment  of  his  own  thoughts. 

181 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"How  did  you  know,"  Jie  &sked  stupidly,  "what 
I  was  thinking?" 

She  laughed  in  a  way  that  fascinated  him  all  over 
again. 

"Men,"  she  answered,  "are  So  transparent." 

"Are  they?"  he  said  slowly.  Transparency  Was 
the  last  characteristic  which  he  desired  at  that 
moment.  Yet  the  sight  of  her,  the  nearness  of  her, 
the  sound  of  her  voice,  all  were  whipping  his  brain 
to  the  point  where  he  must  tell  her  that  he  loved 
her,  tell  her  perhaps  more  than  that,  tell  her  every- 
thing, the  whole  pitiful  jumble  of  his  mind,  half 
sheer  distress,  half  pure  joy. 

But  somehow,  out  of  all  he  felt  for  her  at  that 
moment,  out  of  all  the  coiled  struggle  in  his  brain, 
no  words  would  come. 

"Then    .    ,    .     then,  you  know?" 

He  heard  himself  stammer  the  question,  and 
cursed  its  banality. 

She  answered  lightly  enough. 

"I  know  lots  of  things,"  ehe  said,  and  her  eyes 
danced  into  his. 

Had  it  really  been  her  voice,  which  had  said 
something,  something  which  he  could  no  longer 
remember  clearly,  about  hknself  and  the  prayer- 
book  and  the  Bible?  Could  that  voice  have  be- 
longed to  these  twinkling  eyes  and  this  adorable 
face;  could  it  really  have  come  straight  from  these 
very  desirable  lips?, 

182 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Speedily,  in  the  intoxication  of  simply  looking  jit 
her,  Charles  was  forgetting  those  few  mysterious 
moments,  forgetting  everything  save  that  he  loved 
this  woman,  that  Peter  loved  her  too,  and  that  she 
was  here  with  him,  Charles,  alone.  It  became  very 
easy  to  believe  that  this  was  all  that  mattered.  In 
a  very  few  seconds,  indeed,  it  appeared  obvious  that 
this  was  all  that  mattered.  The  very  smile  in  her 
eyes  was  an  invitation,  the  very  quiver  about  the 
corner  of  her  lips  was  an  understanding. 

He  discovered,  with  a  start,  that  their  hands 
were  touching.  The  mere  touch,  to  him,  was  so 
enthralling  that  he  never  noticed  its  peculiarity — the 
fact  that  it  was  her  hand  which  lay  over  his.  .  .  . 
Then  again  he  heard  her  voice. 

"I  have  told  you,"  she  said,  "that  I  know  lots 
of  things  about  you.  But  I  must  back  that  statement 
up,  musn't  I?" 

She  smiled  again,  and  Charles,  drunk  now  with 
his  leaping  imagination,  could  only  nod. 

"What  are  you  doing  to-night,  after  dinner?" 
asked  the  strange  lady, 

He  found  his  tongue  with  difficulty. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "I  supposq  the  usual  walk  along 
the  front." 

She  nodded. 

"I  shall  be  in  my  room  all  the  evening,"  she  said, 
and,  to  Charles,  there  wag  in  her  voice  something 
maddening,  like  the  nervous  strident  call  of  a  dial- 

183 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

lenge  when  there  is  doubt  as  to  whether  or  not  it 
will  be  accepted. 

"I  understand,"  ne  said,  and  kissed  the  hand 
which  lay  over  his  own. 

"I  wonder,"  she  answered,  "whether  you  really 
do!" 

But  Charles  was  feeling  fine  and  grand,  a  hero  of 
big  romance,  and  his  singing  soul  had  no  room  for 
the  subtleties  of  voice  and  tone  which  he  might  have 
discovered  in  her  sentence. 

She  patted  his  hand  and  with  a  quick,  friendly 
smile  left  the  room. 

As  for  Charles,  his  whole  being  surged  and  bub- 
bled with  triumph.  So  much  for  Peter !  So  much 
for  the  professional  strong  man:  he,  Charles,  had 
felt  his  hand  in  that  of  the  strange  lady:  he,  Charles, 
had  received  an  invitation  to  her  own  little 
sanctuary ! 

He  almost  felt  it  in  his  heart  to  be  sorry  for  the 
ridiculous  Peter. 

After  all,  poor  old  Chap,  it  must  be  difficult  for 
him  to  realize  that  he  could  never  be  quite  so 
attractive  as  Charles !  One  could  hardly  blame  him 
for  not  understanding  this.  And  after  all,  they 
were  very  old  friends.  He  left  the  room  to  dress 
for  dinner,  with  a  real  feeling  of  sympathy  for 
Peter.  That  delicious  feeling  of  pity  which  comes 
when  you  are  quite  certain  that  you  are  going  to 
triumph,  crushingly  and  absolutely,  over  the  pitied. 


184 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Now,  Peter,  at  this  moment,  was  tying  his  eve- 
ning tie  in  a  state  of  equally  absurd  triumph.  For, 
upon  leaving  Charles  in  the  billiard-room,  he  had 
met  the  strange  lady  on  the  stairs,  and  she  had  given 
him  to  understand  that  she  might  have  to  face  a 
lonely  evening,  in  her  little  sitting-room.  Peter,  as 
was  his  nature,  had  snatched  at  the  hint  with  both 
hands,  and  had  ascended  to  his  dressing-room, 
taking  at  least  three  steps  at  a  time.  So  he  tied  his 
evening  bow,  accurately  and  triumphantly,  while 
Charles,  not  four  doors  away,  a  little  late,  frisked 
about  inside  a  clean  shirt  until  he  forced  his  head 
through  the  top,  with  a  sheer  lightness  of  heart 
which  expressed  itself  in  bursts  of  impossible  sing- 
ing, where  the  tune  vanished  gurgling  into  a  basin  of 
hot  water,  and  re-appeared,  with  unabated  gusto, 
twenty  bars  later  on,  muted  only  by  the  dabbing  of 
a  towel. 

Such  abandonment  Emily,  hooking  herself  into 
her  grey  and  silver  tussore  in  the  next  room,  did 
not  attempt  to  understand. 

"Dear  Charlie,"  she  murmured  to  herself,  "he 
has  had  a  cocktail  in  the  billiard-room  I" 

Perhaps  she  was  right. 


185 


CHAPTER  XII. 

It  was  ten  o'clock.  The  door  of  the  Strange 
lady's  room,  that  ugly  hard-featured  little  room  in 
which  had  taken  place  the  merry  supper-party  with 
the  thunderous  atmosphere  about  it,  was  closed. 
Behind  it,  curled  up  on  the  sofa,  lay  the  siren, 
smiling  to  Peter  Margett.  He  stood,  the  other  side 
of  the  table,  resting  his  fingers  upon  its  green  cloth. 
But  perhaps  Vesting'  is  hardly  the  word,  for  Peter's 
fingers  were  tense,  pressing  hard  into  the  rough  sur- 
face of  the  cheap  art-serge.  He,  at  least,  had  given 
himself  over,  body  and  soul,  to  the  blinding  glamour 
of  the  moment. 

"You  are  sure,"  she  was  Saying,  "that  you  love 
me?" 

"Sure?"  he  answered.  1{I  have  torn  up  the  idea$ 
of  thirty  years,  because  I  love  you." 

"Yet  you  hardly  know  me." 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  "that  few  men  know  ^hat 
fHey  love,  any  more  than  why." 

She  smiled. 

"Yet,"  she  hazarded,  "as  we  grow  older  we  are 
Supposed  to  grow  wiser,  aren't  we?" 

"In  everything  else,"  he  answered  Stubbornly, 
"except  love." 

186 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

He  came  close  to  her  and  stood  looking  down  at 
Her  face. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  "how  much  I  love  you. 
You  know  that  this  is  nothing  that  will  pass:  that 
whatever  happens,  this  is  going  to  remain  with  me 
to  the  end." 

"Yes,"  she  answered  quietly.  "I  know  that. 
You  are  that  kind  of  man.  This  is  certainly  going 
to  remain  with  you  to  the  end.  Just  as  it  has  been 
with  you  all  these  years." 

"You  mean,"  he  said,  "that  I  have  always  been 
looking  for  you." 

"Not  quite  that,"  she  replied.  "I  mean  that  for 
a  long  time  now  .  <.  .  you  have  forgotten  what 
I  looked  like.  And  so  I  suppose  you  started  looking 
for  me  again." 

"But  .  .  ."  he  hesitated,  "I  have  never  seen 
you,  never  known  you  before.  How  could  I  have 
forgotten?" 

"You've  known  me  for  a  long  time,"  she 
answered.  "You've  grown  to  know  me  so  well  that 
you  have  forgotten  me  1" 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  muttered. 

"Of  course,  Peter,"  she  said,  "of  course  you  don't 
understand." 

There  was  a  world  of  tenderness  in  her  voice,  like 
a  mother  answering  the  questions  of  a  very  small 
boy.  Something  of  this  quality  in  her  tone  pre- 
vented Peter  from  following  up  the  thrill  which  the 
use  of  his  Christian  name  had  given  him.  He  only 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

stared  at  her  foolishly,  just  as  the  very  small  boy 
would  have  done.  He  saw  the  corners  of  her  lips 
twitch  in  that  fascinating  way  which  they  had,  just 
before  she  smiled.  Her  hand  came  out  and  found 
his.  Its  touch  was  comforting — as  it  would  have 
been  to  the  very  small  boy — because,  though  he 
could  not  analyse  it,  there  was  something  growing 
in  that  room,  something  weird — not  terrifying  in 
itself,  but  alarming  by  reason  of  the  fact  that  it 
was  outside  the  sphere  of  human  control.  Yes,  that 
was  it.  There  were  deeps,  deeper  even  than  a 
strong  man  of  the  world,  fifty-eight  years  old,  could 
plumb.  Things  were  not  going  quite  as  they  might 
have  been  expected  to.  ... 

There  was  something  queer,  something  impossibly 
familiar  even  in  the  touch  of  this  hand  which  lay  in 
his.  One  moment  he  wanted  to  cover  it  with  quick 
kisses,  the  next  he  just  wanted  to  have  it  where  it 
was,  listless,  for  ever.  Without  reason,  blindly,  he 
felt  that  the  presence  of  her  hand  in  his  was  the  only 
thing  which  bound  him  to  his  own  self-respect. 

Certainly  something  was  happening  in  that  room. 

Afterwards,  looking  back  at  the  affair,  as  a  man 
tries  to  analyse  the  first  struggling  moments  of  con- 
sciousness after  an  anaesthetic,  he  could  remember 
little,  save  the  astonishment  at  that  persistent  feel- 
ing of  familiarity,  of  having  known  and  loved  this 
little  hand  for  years. 

He  heard  her  voice,  coming  as  it  seemed  from  a 
long  way  off,  right  away  from  the  sea  perhaps,  over 

188 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

which  she  was  looking,  out  of  the  window.  He 
could  see  her  profile  outlined,  not  sharply,  against 
the  night-blue  of  the  sky. 

"Perhaps,"  she  was  saying,  "I  am  here  to  make 
you  understand." 

He  fancied  she  wore  that  tired,  gentle  little 
smile,  which  he  had  often  seen  about  her  lips.  Her 
hand  still  rested  in  his. 

He  could  not  move.  For  some  reason  or  other, 
he  did  not  dare.  Somewhere  in  the  room,  empty 
except  for  the  man  and  the  woman,  was  a  presence 
that  dared  him  to  move,  a  presence  he  could  not 
disobey. 

And  then  he  saw,  saw  with  his  own  eyes,  the 
miracle. 

The  strange  lady  had  not  moved,  she  was  still 
sitting,  half  turned  to  the  window,  looking  out  over 
the  dark  waters. 

But  the  face  was  changing.  The  whole  figure 
was  chariging,  slowly,  almost  imperceptibly,  yet,  as 
the  moments  went  on,  undeniably.  Even  the  hand 
which  lay  in  his  own  was  changing.  It  seemed  to 
shrink  and  yet  to  be  motionless;  to  grow  a  little 
harder,  without  altering  its  touch  at  all. 

Afterwards,  trying  to  recall  every  second  of  this 
wonder,  Peter  remembered  hearing  the  hurried  tick 
of  the  little  china  clock  on  the  mantelpiece.  Some- 
how the  ticking  of  the  clock  seemed  to  give  a  real 
value  to  what  was  happening. 
Still  the  face  did  not  move. 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Then,  all  of  a  sudden,  blindingly,  he  saw.  It  was 
Joan's  face  at  the  window;  it  was  Joan's  hand  which 
he  held  in  his. 

The  words  that  the  strange  lady  had  spoken 
rushed  suddenly  back  into  his  mind. 

"You've  grown  to  know  me  so  well,  that  you 
have  forgotten  me  I" 

He  fell  to  his  knees,  his  head  upon  the  hand  that 
still  lay  in  his  own.  Tears,  which  he  did  not  try 
to  force  back,  fell  upon  that  hand  unheeded. 

Now,  at  least,  he  understood. 

How  long  he  remained  like  that  he  did  not  know. 
It  might  have  been  centuries,  for  time  and  the  soul 
have  nothing  in  common.  And  if  ever  Peter's  soul 
leapt  out  of  its  prison,  it  was  now,  singing,  through 
the  medium  of  those  tears,  wild  paeans  of  thanks- 
giving. 

The  voice  came  to  him  once  more,  the  voice  of 
the  strange  lady,  near  at  hand  again.  They  were 
curious  words  that  reached  his  ears. 

"Thomas,"  she  said,  "must  have  seemed  worth 
while,  near  Galilee,  or  he  would  never  have  been 
shown." 

It  needed  the  reality  of  the  spoken  words  to 
bring  Peter  back  to  the  hard-featured  little  room. 
He  had  been  voyaging  on  a  sea  of  recollections,  now 
for  the  first  time  vivid  and  valued.  Magically,  as 
under  the  restorer's  art,  the  picture  of  his  life  had 
regained  its  old  warmth  of  colour,  its  old  clarity  of 
design.  He  saw,  with  a  sense  of  abasement  hardly 

190; 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

credible  in  so  'strong'  a  nature,  that  he  had  indeed 
"known  Joan  so  well  that  he  had  forgotten  her." 
She  had  become  to  him,  at  this  moment,  the  dearest, 
most  precious  friend  in  the  world:  she  had  become 
more  than  that  .  .  ,  much  more;  all  the  mad 
promise  of  the  honeymoon  days  seemed  now  to  be 
fulfilled. 

Why?  How?  Had  not  he  himself,  in  the  pleni- 
tude of  his  wisdom,  told  Charles  that  'there  was  no 
secret'  ? 

Even  now  he  realized  that  he  did  not  know  the 
nature  of  that  secret.  But  those  last  words  were 
still  buzzing  in  his  ears.  Like  Thomas,  he  had  been 
shown,  and  he  believed.  Yesterday  his  whole 
editorial  nature  would  have  demanded  reasons. 
Now,  he  found  himself  on  his  feet,  felt  the  intoxica- 
tion of  a  great  joy  in  his  veins,  and  heard  his  own 
voice  cry  out  aloud,  "I  believe  in  this!" 

"Yes,"  came  in  soft  tones  from  the  sofa,  "that 
is  the  secret  I" 

Again  he  was  conscious  of  his  voice,  as  something 
out  of  his  own  control,  explaining  things. 

"It  is  the  cities — going  to  the  office — other  peo- 
ple's tragedies  all  the  time — or  other  people's 
comedies.  It  dulls  the  other  side  of  a  man.  All  the 
people  you  meet  .  .  ,  talking  about  life  cheaply. 
But  they  never  talk  about  their  own  lives.  .  .  ." 

His  brain  was  trying  to  puzzle  out  the  reason  for 
his  failure. 

"It's  easy  to  lose  sight  of  things  if  they  are  never 

191 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

mentioned.  That's  why  people  advertise.  Funny! 
Nobody  ever  advertising  anything  that  really  mat- 
ters .  .  .  so,  I  suppose,  it  gets  forgotten.  Hell ! 
what  a  fool  I've  been!" 

He  came  to  earth  again,  suddenly,  regaining  in 
part  his  ordinary  control.  Then,  of  course,  reason 
became  assertive,  insistent.  His  mechanism,  as  a 
man,  jarred  violently  at  contact  with  a  force  that 
was  not,  on  the  face  of  it,  human.  He  became 
suddenly  ashamed  of  his  own  blind  faith  in  the 
miracle.  He  felt  that  he  must  know  what  it  was 
that  had  happened,  if  only  that  he  might  be  certain 
of  the  reality  of  its  happening.  Every  moment,  as 
he  looked  into  the  eyes  of  the  strange  lady,  once 
again  their  merry  twinkling  selves,  the  events  of 
two  minutes  ago  were  becoming  more  incredible, 
slipping  away  fast  into  the  unsubstantial  and 
unsatisfactory  shadows  of  hallucination  and  dreams. 

Apparently  she  divined  his  thoughts. 

"Listen,"  she  said.  "What  happened  was  real. 
It  was  no  effort  of  your  imagination.  All  the  things 
you  live  by,  all  the  funny  little  things  you  call 
facts — "  she  spoke  quickly,  enthusiastically,  as  one 
about  to  lift  the  lid  of  a  treasure  chest,  knowing 
well  what  was  within;  but  all  of  a  sudden  she 
stopped  short,  with  a  little  flashing  smile.  "Well, 
they  are  facts,"  she  said  in  a  more  matter  of  fact 
tone,  "but  it's  a  mistake  to  believe  that  they  are  all 
the  facts.  And,  in  that  matter,  there  is  an  ignorant 
old  man  on  the  beach  who  has  the  wisdom  of  the 

192 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

serpent!"  Now  she  laughed  outright.  "'Serpent' 
is  rather  cruel,"  she  said,  "except  that  he  seems  to 
have  twined  himself  pretty  firmly  round  the  tree  of 
knowledge,  though  he  may  be  hanging  on  by  his 
tail  instead  of  his  head!" 

Peter's  mind  was  still  occupied  with  his  own 
amazing  revelation. 

"Hypnotism,"  he  murmured  to  himself. 

"No,"  she  answered.  "No  'ism  whatever.  Just 
white  magic." 

"Then  what  are  you,  who  are  you?" 

For  some  reason,  perhaps  because  he  found  that 
his  brain,  which  he  had  always  considered  a  very 
efficient  organ,  was  outraged  by  this  thing  which  had 
happened  to  him,  there  was  a  note  of  indignation 
in  his  voice. 

"If  you  ask  me  that,"  she  answered,  with  a  touch 
of  whimsical  sadness,  "I  shall  have  to  tell  you  the 
truth.  And  that  is  the  last  thing  that  you  will 
believe." 

"Tell  me!"  he  said  defiantly. 

She  sighed. 

"You  ask  who  I  am,"  she  answered,  "and  the 
answer  is  easy:  I  am  no  one.  No,  no!"  she 
laughed,  seeing  his  face,  "not  in  the  society  sense! 
I  mean  it  literally.  I  have  no  name:  I  simply  don't 
exist  in  that  way." 

She  laughed  again  into  Peter's  eyes,  childlike  and 
round  in  their  astonishment.  At  her  laugh,  his  eyes 
became  grown-up  again,  for  he  decided  that  she  did 
not  mean  him  to  take  her  seriously. 

193 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Then  you  ask  what  I  am !"  she  went  on.  "You 
ought  to  know  that,  for  you  fell  in  love  with  me  I" 

The  mere  suggestion  infuriated  Peter  now,  with 
all  his  passion  for  Joan  seething  and  bubbling  inside 
him,  yet  how  could  he  'deny  it?  Their  presence  in 
the  room  together  was  living  proof. 

"I  don't  know  why  I  fell  in  love  with  you,"  he 
muttered,  "the  whole  thing  is  a  mystery." 

"The  solution  of  the  mystery,"  she  answered, 
"lies  in  what  I  am." 

"No,  no!"  he  said.  "You  are  everything  that  is 
delightful,  of  course,  but " 

He  hesitated,  abashed. 

"But,"  she  completed  his  sentence  for  him,  "you 
love  Joan?  That  is  why  you  fell  in  love  with  me." 

She  rose  and  put  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders, 
speaking  in  a  soft  low  voice,  with  the  characteristic 
little  smile  about  her  lips : 

"For  I  am  Joan,"  she  said.  "All  the  bits  of  Joan 
that  make  her  the  most  wonderful  woman  in  the 
world  to  you :  all  the  bits  you  had  been  idiot  enough 
to  have  forgotten.  And  I  am  all  the  bits  of  Mary 
that  make  a  divine  fool  of  John,  and  all  the  bits  of 
Kate,  and  Alice,  and  Elsie  and  Phyllis,  right  away 
from  the  Queen  of  Sheba  to  Jane,  the  underhouse- 
maid.  So  now  you  know  what  I  am,  and  why  I  am 
no  one  I" 

Peter  Margett  took  a  grip  upon  his  brain  with 
both  hands,  so  to  speak.  He  told  himself  earnestly 
that  it  was  now  necessary  for  him  to  be  exceptionally 
calm  and  rational.  This  woman  was  talking  non- 
194 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

sense  to  him.  He  must  fight  against  the  ridiculous 
atmosphere  in  that  room  which  was  making  it 
appear  more  than  nonsense.  He  never  had 
tolerated  any  kind  of  nonsense  ...  he  Kad  a 
reputation  for  not  tolerating  nonsense. 

The  fact  was,  he  reasoned,  that,  as  a  result  of 
some  emotional  cloudburst  (curse  Charles  for  this!) 
he  had  made  a  fool  of  himself,  and  now  this  woman 
was  trying  to  make  a  fool  of  him.  Well,  in  the 
school-boy  phrase,  he  was  too  old  a  bird.  .  .  . 

The  only  thing  was  that  there  had  been,  undoubt- 
edly, that  strange  moment  with  its  very  tangible 
result.  He  did,  very  definitely,  desire  to  go  to  Joan 
and — to  caress  her :  and  he  had  not  felt  that  desire 
for  years.  He  discovered  that  his  companion  wasi 
still  looking  at  him,  with  her  queer  little  smile. 

He  smiled  back,  a  smile  full  of  self-control  and 
kindliness — a  tea-party  smile. 

"I  congratulate  you,"  he  said.  "You  keep  your 
incognito  exceedingly  well,  my  dear  young  lady  I" 

Now  that,  whatever  the  means,  he  had  regained 
his  self-respect,  she  had  become  a  young. lady  to 
him.  Before,  he  had  rejoiced  in  regarding  her  as 
an  equal.  At  this  she  laughed  outright. 

"You  can  thank  your  stars,"  she  said,  "that  you 
are  cured,  and  whether  you  believe  or  not  does  not 
matter  very  much  now  I" 

He  felt  that  he  must  make  some  apology  to  her 
for  his  unbelievable  infatuation. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  "that  I  made  a:  fool  of 
myself." 

195 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Even  as  he  said  it,  some  deep-rooted  dogma  of  his 
sex  assured  him  that  she  must  have  enjoyed  his 
folly.  Why,  any  number  of  women  simply  lived  for 
just  that  kind  of  amusement  I  Still,  an  apology  was 
the  right  formula  for  the  end  of  the  game. 

For  the  first  time  he  saw  a  look  of  anger  in  her 
eyes. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "you  have  been  a  fool;  I  am  not 
sure  that  you  won't  always  be  a  fool.  But,  as  it  is, 
you  have  been  a  lucky  fool,  because  you  have  the 
makings  of  a  decent  fool.  If  you  take  my  advice, 
you'll  spend  the  rest  of  your  life  trying  to  find  out 
the  enormous  amount  that  your  wife  knows  about 
you.  That  should  keep  you  out  of  any  further 
folly!" 

Suddenly,  like  the  sun  bursting  from  behind  a 
storm  cloud,  her  mood  seemed  to  change.  She  took 
his  hand,  with  a  quick  smile. 

"Man!  Man!"  she  said.  "Haven't  you  always 
prided  yourself  upon  your  strength?  Then  be 
strong  enough  to  be  thankful  that  you  are  out  of 
the  mess,  without  trying  to  pretend  to  yourself  you 
were  never  in  it." 

He  bent  over  her  hand,  stiffly. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  "that  I  have  a  great  deal  to 
thank  you  for.  But  you  can  hardly  expect  a  reason- 
able man  to  subscribe  to  your  preposterous  explana- 
tion of  your  identity,  can  you?" 

"Perhaps  not,"  she  answered,  with  a  sigh,  and 
added  in  a  whisper.  "They  never  do  ...  poor 
souls." 

196 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

He  turned  suddenly  towards  the  door. 

"Well,  goodbye,  lucky  man!"  she  said.  She  was 
making  his  departure  very  easy,  he  thought,  and 
inwardly  he  thanked  her  for  it. 

"Surely,"  he  said,  "since  I  have  ...  er  ... 
got  over  my  folly,  there  is  no  reason  why  I  should 
not  see  you  again?" 

"Indeed,  no,'*  she  answered.  "Only  the  reason 
which  I  gave  you  and  which  you  would  not  believe.". 

At  the  door  he  turned  awkwardly. 

"I  can  rely  on  you  .  .  ."  he  hesitated,  "not  to 
say  anything  about  this?" 

She  laughed  into  his  distressed  eyes. 

"Did  I  not  tell  you,"  she  said,  "that  I  was  the 
ideal  woman?" 

Peter  went  down  the  passage,  trying  hard  to 
trample  upon  a  conviction  that  he  had  not  played 
a  very  lofty  part  in  the  last  scene.  Over  the 
banisters  he  heard  the  voices  of  people  coming  in 
from  the  front.  He  heard  Loveday  Weare  saying 
"Well,  if  you  think  so,  dear,"  and  then  Joan  answer- 
ing very  determinedly  "I  do !"  Peter  thrilled  to  her 
voice,  and  hugged  the  thrill  joyously  to  himself,  as 
a  child,  given  an  unexpected  chocolate,  sucks  it 
slowly  to  make  it  last.  He  felt  that  he  did  not  want 
to  meet  Joan  just  now,  any  other  way  except  alone. 
He  would  go  to  their  room  and  wait  for  her  to 
come  up.  The  things  he  wanted  to  say  to  Joan 
would  sound  perilously  like  nonsense,  to  other  ears. 
As  he  turned  the  corner  of  the  landing  he  heard  the 

197 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

door  of  the  strange  lady's  room  shut  softly.  He 
looked  back,  expecting  to  see  her  going  down  the 
stairs,  but  there  was  no  one  there.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  went  on.  Everything  this  woman 
did,  he  thought,  had  some  infernal  mystery  about 
it.  Well,  he  imagined  that  was  her  pose.  Not  a 
bad  pose,  either,  for  a  woman,  if  she  can  carry  it 
off! 

Thus  the  Editor,  clutching  desperately  at  the 
worldly  wisdom  on  which  he  prided  himself.  It 
never  entered  his  head  that  the  click  of  the  door 
might  have  been  made  by  someone  going  in — 
Charles,  for  instance. 

Peter  went  into  his  bedroom,  and,  sitting  in  the 
wicker  armchair  at  the  window,  waited  for  his  wife 
to  come  up.  He  felt  much  like  a  poacher  who  has 
heard  a  man-trap  spring  to,  an  eighth  of  an  inch 
beneath  his  foot.  His  heart  sang  within  him.  For 
all  that,  after  some  twenty  minutes,  he  began  to 
fidget  at  the  non-arrival  of  Joan.  He  supposed 
they  were  still  gossiping,  downstairs  in  the  lounge. 
Still,  he  would  not  go  down  and  see.  Of  one  thing 
he  was  absolutely  certain :  that  in  his  present  mood 
he  wanted  to  see  Joan  alone.  He  sat  on  in  the  arm- 
chair, smoking  a  cigarette  and  smiling  fatuously  at 
his  wife's  silver  brushes  on  the  dressing-table. 
From  somewhere  along  the  beach  there  floated  to 
him,  through  the  open  window,  an  old  quavering 
voice,  vaguely  familiar.  It  sang  a  tune,  indeed,  but 
a  tune  like  the  song  of  a  drunken  man,  vague  and 

198 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

without  rhythm.  Yet  the  singer  was  no  drunkard, 
for  the  words,  fitting  the  impromptu  metre  excel- 
lently, came  faint,  but  clear  enough : — 

"There's  no  pure  green  and  there's  no  pure  gold, 

And  there's  no  pure  heart  in  man; 
But  he  who  believes  in  'em,  young  or  old, 
Why,  he's  garnered  all  he  can! 

"Ye'll  bet  on  gold  and  ye'll  find  it's  paint, 

(But  paint  may  be  bright  an'  good!) 
And  a  wise  man  blesses  his  private  saint 
That  he  chose  as  a  wise  man  should !" 

Peter  threw  his  cigarette  end  out  of  the  window 
and  watched  it  glowing  on  the  pavement.  Where 
the  devil  was  Joan? 

The  song  still  floated  to  him  over  the  pebbles, 
but  Peter  was  no  longer  listening.  He  was  im- 
patient, hungry;  just  so  had  he  felt,  during  his 
engagement,  waiting  for  Joan  at  the  gates  of  Kew 
Gardens,  or  at  Richmond  Park. 


199 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Along  the  sea-front,  after  dinner,  Joan  had  been 
walking  with  Loveday  Weare.  Her  mind,  for  all 
its  years  of  sterility,  was  still  the  mind  which  had 
produced  unmarketable  poems,  was  still  filled  with 
a  sense  of  romance  stronger  than  herself.  In  this 
crisis,  all  the  long-suppressed  heroic  ideas  in  her 
rose  to  the  surface.  Peter  loved  another  woman — 
you  could  twist  it  any  way  you  pleased,  as  Loveday 
had  tried  to  twist  it — but  the  ultimate  fact  re- 
mained— -Peter  loved  another  woman.  And  Joan 
loved  Peter.  She  had  wit  enough  to  know  that  there 
,was  nothing  very  peculiar  in  the  situation.  She  had 
read  books  and  seen  plays — read  so  many  books  and 
seen  so  many  plays  indeed,  that  the  situation  might 
well  have  appeared  to  her  to  be  the  only  one  in  the 
world.  But  then,  she  and  Peter  had  taken  their 
marriage  seriously  I  They  had  been  young  in  an 
age  when  the  idea  of  an  "eternal  bond  of  love"  had 
not  become  so  terrifying  that,  from  sheer  self- 
defence,  it  had  to  be  laughed  out  of  court  by  the 
clever  or  the  passionate. 

Peter,  she  knew,  had  believed  as  much  as  she 
in  the  ideas  which,  for  some  time  past,  she  had 
been  learning  from  Alison's  friends  were  quite 

200 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

ridiculous.  She  had  never  entered  into  these  argu- 
ments, either  one  side  or  the  other;  youth,  she 
knew,  was  violent  and  self-confident,  but  she  knew 
equally  well  that  youth  was  often  right.  Only,  she 
and  Peter  had  seen  things  differently,  and  in  their 
faith  they  must  live.  By  the  new  generation  they 
might  be  regarded  as  Druids  and  sun-worshippers, 
but,  what  then?  There  must  have  been  many  a 
happy  Druid,  many  a  noble  sun-worshipper.  The 
point  was  that  this  thing  had  happened  to  Peter, 
and,  in  the  light  of  his  conviction  and  the  habit  of 
the  better  part  of  his  life,  it  could  not  be  treated 
otherwise  than  seriously. 

"If  I  was  drowned,"  she  said  to  herself,  "he 
would  be  happy." 

She  never  thought  to  ask  herself  how  she  had 
failed  him,  or  why  she  deserved  to  be  a  sacrifice. 
The  whole  thing  was  part  of  her  tradition,  and  the 
strength  of  it  was  bigger  than  her  own  intelligence, 
which  told  her  that  it  was  as  ridiculous  and  as 
damnable  a  tradition  as  Suttee. 

Luckily,  perhaps,  Loveday  overheard  her. 

"If  I  was  drowned,"  she  said,  "Owen  would  be 
neither  happier  nor  more  unhappy.  He  might  be 
less  amused,  that's  all." 

"Well,"  answered  Joan,  "that  is  why  you  can't 
understand,  I  suppose." 

Loveday  sighed. 

"I  suppose  you  think,"  she  said,  "that  if  you 
were  drowned,  Peter  would  marry  this  woman?" 

201 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Joan  nodded,  her  lips  set. 

"And  do  you  really  imagine,  Joan,"  went  on  her 
companion,  "that  the  act  of  marriage  has  anything 
to  do  with  happiness?  At  least  we  are  nineteenth 
century  women,  not  eighteenth  I" 

"But  Peter  is  nineteenth  century,  too,"  answered 
Joan,  "and  respectable  nineteenth  century." 

"That  means,"  said  her  companion,  "that  it 
would  irk  him  considerably  to  be  compelled  to  live 
with  a  woman  he  professes  to  adore,  without  a 
stamp  on  the  contract?" 

Joan  stopped  suddenly,  and  her  clenched  hands 
showed  white  against  her  dress. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  may  be  a  Victorian  fool,  but  I 
can't  discuss  Peter  like  this — not  even  with  you  I" 
and  then  she  sat  suddenly  down  upon  the  grass  at 
the  cliff's  bottom,  and  rocked  backwards  and  for- 
wards, her  face  in  her  hands,  moaning. 

"I  wish  I  was  dead!"  she  sobbed,  "I  wish  I 
was  dead!"  And  then,  in  great  gasps,  "Baby  Peter, 
Baby  Peter!" 

Somehow  those  words  seemed  more  terrible  to 
Loveday  than  anything  which  had  gone  before. 
They  put  Alison  so  absolutely  in  her  niche,  the  girl 
that  was  never  a  child.  Loveday  had  a  curious  idea 
that  this  agonizing  burst  of  maternal  feeling  would 
never  have  happened  had  not  Peter  strayed  from 
the  paths  of  righteousness.  It  was  almost  as  if, 
by  virtue  of  his  disgraceful  behaviour,  Joan  was 
falling  in  love  all  over  again.  .  .  . 

202 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Then  she  had  a  sudden  fear  that  someone  would 
pass  and  ask  if  Joan  was  ill,  and  that  she  would 
have  to  say  something  or  other.  And  there  seemed 
nothing  to  say,  either  to  the  possible  stranger,  or 
to  Joan,  still  rocking  backwards  and  forwards  in 
the  shadow.  She  stood  irresolute,  helpless.  Then 
a  familiar  voice  reached  her  through  the  darkness 
along  the  front. 

"Of  course,  they  entertained  a  good  deal,"  it  was 
saying,  "She  liked  it  and  I  daresay  it  was  good  for 
his  business :  but  the  end  of  it  was  they  never  had 
a  meal  together  from  one  week's  end  to  the  other — 
except  breakfast,  of  course,  but  you'll  soon  find, 
Alison  dear,  that  breakfast  doesn't  count  as  a 
meal — not  with  men.  So,  in  the  end,  when  the 
trouble  came,  I  always  said  it  was  due  to  that — 
always  being  at  someone  else's  beck  and  call,  you 
know.  You  can't  be  natural  with  guests,  however 
long  you've  known  them!  Not  that  all  this  has 
much  to  do  with  the  price  of  boots,  but  one  thing 
always  seems  to  suggest  something  quite  different 
to  me!" 

It  was  Emily,  walking  home  with  Harold  and 
Alison.  Joan  got  up  quickly,  and  brushed  her  hair 
back  from  her  eyes  with  her  hand. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said  shortly,  and  peered  through 
the  darkness  towards  the  approaching  voices  as  if 
to  see  how  near  they  actually  were. 

"I  shall  tell  Emily,"  she  said,  with  sudden 
decision. 

203 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Why?"  whispered  Loveday. 

"She  has  got  to  share  it  with  me." 

Joan's  voice  was  tense,  even  cruel. 

"It  is  almost  incredible,"  said  her  companion, 
"that  she  has  not  seen  it." 

"I  shall  tell  her,"  answered  the  other.  "I  shall 
tell  her  to-night." 

Then  Emily  herself  had  reached  them  with 
Harold  and  Alison  just  behind  her.  All  the  way 
home  she  babbled  happily  of  all  manner  of  trivial 
things,  wondering  why  orange  blossom  was  out  of 
fashion,  and  remembering  the  childish  thrill  of  fur- 
nishing the  first  home  of  one's  very  own,  with  a 
long  story  about  a  clergyman  with  a  'sweet'  face 
whom  she  had  wanted  to  officiate  at  her  ceremony 
and  why  he  couldn't  come:  with  all  the  details  of 
the  birth  of  twins,  who  must  now  be  over  thirty 
years  old.  So  they  reached  the  Hotel  without  Emily 
realizing  that,  for  the  entire  walk,  no  one  had 
spoken  a  word  except  herself. 

In  the  hall,  Joan  had  whispered  to  Loveday 
again : 

"I  am  going  to  tell  her  now  I'* 

And  Loveday,  though  she  herself  could  see  no 
sense  in  disturbing  the  placid  stream  of  Emily's 
mind,  had  only  been  able  to  answer : 

"Well,  if  you  think  so,  dear." 

To  which  Joan  had  replied  firmly : 

"I  do." 

This  was  the  conversation  which  Peter  had  heard 

204 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

as  he  stood  on  the  landing  and  on  which  he  had  gone 
straight  to  his  room  to  wait,  hungrily,  the  coming 
of  his  wife. 

Alison  and  Harold  started  arguing,  in  the  hall, 
on  some  point  connected  with  their  programme  for 
the  morrow,  and  Loveday,  who  always  put  off  going 
to  bed  as  long  as  possible,  sank  into  a  chair  beside 
them. 

Joan  started  up  the  stairs  with  Emily. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you  alone,"  she  said  suddenly. 

Emily  nodded  calmy,  and  Joan  found  herself  un- 
accountably surprised. 

"In  my  bedroom,  dear,"  said  Emily,  and  never 
uttered  another  word  until  she  was  comfortably 
seated  in  an  armchair  near  the  mantelpiece,  oppo- 
site a  photograph  of  Charles  which  she  always  car- 
ried about  with  her,  and,  having  unhooked  her  dress 
and  eased  her  corsets,  had  swathed  herself  in  a  torn 
and  faded  lavender  dressing-gown. 

"It's  fearfully  shabby,"  she  said,  as  Joan  sat 
stiffly  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  "but,  when  I  bought 
it,  at  a  sale — St.  Thomas',  Westminster, — it  was — 
it  was  really  a  bargain,  quite  apart  from  the  charity. 
Genuine  Japanese  embroiderv,  but  of  course  it's 
all  worn  now!" 

"You  can  see  it  was  good  silk,"  answered  Joan 
dully. 

She  felt  that  there  was  something  diabolically 
cruel  in  disturbing  this  placid  mind.  What  she  had 
come  to  say  appeared  to  her  now  as  much  better 

205 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

left  unsaid.     She  heard  Emily's  voice  again,  trivial, 
without  modulation. 

"Well,"  it  said,  "I've  worn  it  for  twelve 
years  .  .  .  no,  thirteen.  I  remember  that 
sale  quite  so  well — in  December,  it  was  .  .  . 
and,  without  any  change  of  inflection,  she  went  on, 
"I  suppose  you  want  to  talk  to  me  about  dear 
Charles  and  Peter?" 

The  unexpected  remark  hit  Joan  like  an  electric 
shock.  She  sat  up  stiffly  on  the  bedside,  and  her 
hand,  as  if  seeking  support,  found  the  mahogany 
knob  at  the  bottom. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "That  is  what  I  came  to 
talk  about." 

Emily  rose,  a  shapeless  rustle  of  silk,  and,  all 
in  a  moment,  Joan  discovered  a  fat,  motherly  arm 
about  her  shoulders,  and  a  queer  spreading  body 
beside  her,  on  the  bed. 

"My  dear  child,"  Emily  was  saying,  "you  haven't 
'really  been  worrying  about  them,  have  you?" 

"Worrying?"  she  echoed.  Was  it  possible  that 
Emily  was  so  foolish  that  she  was  incapable  of  the 
imagination  to  take  in  the  significance  of  this  thing, 
even  after  she  had  guessed  at  its  existence? 

"I  remember  a  dear  old  uncle  of  mine,"  Emily 
went  on  "who  lived  in  Radcliffe  Gardens — no,  not 
at  the  time  I'm  talking  of,  he'd  moved  to  Edwardes 
Square.  Such  a  queer  old  thing.  He  had  hairs 
growing  out  of  his  ears,  and  he  used  to  try  to  singe 
them  off  with  a  match  when  he  lighted  a  cigar!" 

206 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

She  chuckled  suddenly  at  the  memory  of  this  uncle. 
As  for  Joan,  she  felt  that  she  would  scream  unless 
Emily's  flow  of  words  simmered  down  into  some- 
thing reasonable. 

"What  was  I  saying?"  asked  her  companion, 
suddenly  helpless,  as  usual. 

"An  uncle,"  murmured  Joan,  automatically. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Emily,  "he  hated  fogs." 

Joan  waited  for  her  to  continue,  but  nothing 
happened.  Apparently,  to  her  own  satisfaction, 
at  any  rate,  Emily  had  explained  what  she  had 
meant  to  say. 

"What's  it  all  got  to  do  with  Charles  and  Peter?" 
asked  Joan. 

"Don't  you  seel"  said  Emily,  and  then  in  a  tone 
of  patient  remonstrance,  "I  suppose  I  haven't  made 
myself  clear.  I  never  do,  my  dear,  somehow  or 
other.  It's  really  a  terrible  affliction,  because,  al- 
most always,  I  know  quite  well  what  it  is  I  want 
to  say!"  She  paused,  and  put  her  finger  to  her 
lips,  like  a  child  thinking  hard.  "Now  what  was 
it,"  she  went  on,  "that  Uncle  Ronald  used  to  say, 
which  I  wanted  to  tell  you.  Oh,  I  know !  He  used 
to  say,  especially  on  foggy  days,  which  I  told  you  he 
hated,  that  the  chief  difficulty  of  London  was  to 
keep  on  remembering  that  the  sun  was  there  all 
the  time,  though  you  never  saw  it  at  all!  Well, 
I  was  a  girl  at  that  time,  round  about  seventeen, 
so  of  course  I  looked  for  a  second  meaning  in  poor 
Uncle's  remark,  though  I  daresay  he  never  meant 

207 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

anything  of  the  kind,  for  if  ever  there  was  a  stupid 
old  man  ..."  she  broke  off  quickly.  "How- 
ever," she  said,  "he's  dead  now  and  has  the  advant- 
age of  me.  What  I  mean  is,  I  can't  prove  he  was 
stupid,  and  it  may  have  been  me.  But  he  used  to 
fuss  so  if  the  ornaments  were  out  of  place  on  the 
mantelpiece :  really  fuss,  I  mean,  so  that  people  felt 
uncomfortable:  and,  my  dear,  the  amount  of  time 
he  wasted  on  his  food!  I  used  to  warn  Charles 
when  we  were  engaged 

She  broke  off  suddenly,  striking  her  hands  to- 
gether in  a  little  gesture  of  irritation. 

"Joan,"  she  said,  "I'm  going  scampering  off  again. 
Why  don't  you  stop  me?  The  whole  point  is  what 
Uncle  Ronald  said  about  the  sun  being  always 
there." 

The  effort  of  actually  capturing  and  pinning  down 
the  point,  like  a  butterfly,  appeared  to  have  ex- 
hausted Emily  entirely,  for  the  moment.  At  any 
rate  she  stopped  talking  and  sat  silently  at  Joan's 
side,  regarding,  with  a  faint  smile,  the  crinkled  yel- 
low and  green  paper  in  the  fire  place. 

"Do  you  mean,"  said  Joan,  slowly  and  deliber- 
ately, "that  you  don't  care?" 

"My  dearl"  Emily's  voice  was  charged  with 
horrified  protest.  "Of  course  I  care  I  Only, — oh, 
I'm  so  bad  at  expressing  myself  .  .  .  You  see, 
in  a  way,  I  love  Charles  as  I  love  God.  I  couldn't 
have  said  that  when  I  was  a  girl;  it  would  have 
upset  everybody  so.  I  think  people  who  believe  in 

208 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURERS 

God  are  much  more  human  about  Him  nowadays; 
finer,  in  a  way,  perhaps.  Anyway  I  can  say  that, 
now.  What  I  mean  is,  both  are  very  largely  a 
question  of  faith,  don't  you  think,  like  all  great 
friendships.  And  the  more  I've  thought  about 
God,  since  I  stopped  having  to  learn  the  collect 
for  the  week,  the  more  I've  thought  it's  all  a  ques- 
tion of  an  amazing  friendship.  And  trust  is  always 
behind  that,  isn't  it?  You  can't  help  remembering, 
as  you  get  older,  lots  of  things  God  has  done  for 
you — things  one  called  luck  at  the  time.  That's 
only  slang  for  God,  don't  you  think?  And  remem- 
bering things  like  that  is  very  nearly  all  there  is  in 
friendship,  I  believe.  Well,  I  can  remember  lots 
of  queer  little  things  Charles  has  done  for  me,  lots 
of  them  too  little  and  silly  to  repeat,  but  they  all 
proved  him  a  real,  real  friend.  So  you  see,  I  trust 
him,  like  one  does  trust  friends,  .whatever  kind  of 
terrible  mess  they  may  fall  into.  And  Charles, 
somehow,  is  much  too  much  of  a  baby  ever  to  be 
really  wicked." 

She  stopped,  smiling  again  at  some  stored-up  re- 
membrance of  Charles'  babyishness. 

"But  that,"  said  Joan,  "is  just  exactly  what  I 
say  about  Peter." 

Emily  nodded  contentedly. 

"I  suppose  we  all  do,"  she  answered.  Joan  re- 
viewed in  her  mind  the  long  list  of  platitudes  which 
had  been  Emily's  confession  of  faith.  Perhaps  there 
was  more  vitality,  more  strength-giving  power  in 

209 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

these  simple  commonplaces  than  the  intellectuals, 
whose  iconoclastic  smartnesses,  to  which  she  was 
wont  to  listen  round  her  tea-table,  gave  them  credit 
for.  At  any  rate,  here  was  Emily  facing  possible 
disaster  with  a  serenity  which  no  longer  appeared 
the  child  of  simple  foolishness. 

"I  thought,  perhaps,  that  you  had  seen  nothing," 
Joan  murmured  at  last. 

"Of  course,"  answered  Emily,  "of  course  I  have 
seen.  And,  in  a  way,  I  suppose,  anything  might 
happen.  Yet,  all  the  same  . 

She  broke  off,  stealing  a  sidelong  look  at  Joan. 
The  tragic  lines  about  her  lips,  and  the  questing 
eyes,  full  of  pain,  touched  all  the  emotions  of  Emi- 
ly's great  store  of  motherhood.  She  slipped  her 
hand  over  Joan's. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  "of  course  I  know  I'm  a 
stupid  old  babbling  woman,  and  I  can  sometimes 
almost  see  people  not  listening  when  I'm  talking,  so 
I  daresay  everything  I  think  is  really  very  silly; 
still,  I  do  think  things  all  the  same.  Now  you've 
always  been  clever,  so  you've  always  been  thinking 
about  clever  things,  like  books,  and  pictures  and 
even  politics.  And  of  course  they  are  all  very 
necessary,  I  daresay,  and  quite  a  good  thing  to  know 
about — though  even  dear  Charles  secretly  likes  de- 
tective stories  best!  But  they  arn't  important,  are 
they?  I  saw  you  reading  a  book  about  the  Renais- 
sance in  Italy  two  or  three  days  ago,  and  then  that 
time  I  came  to  tea  in  May  it  was  Walpole's  Letters, 

210 


WHERE   YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

and  somebody  told  me  you  had  read  the  whole  of 
the  Golden  Ass,  which  I've  never  heard  of,  and 
Alison  says  you  know  a  great  deal  about  the  Roman 
Empresses.  So  there  you  are !  I  mean,  Joan  dear, 
that  you  sit  here  knowing  all  about  Italy  and  Mr. 
Walpole  and  the  Ass  and  the  Roman  Empresses, 
but  what's  the  good  of  them  to  you?  You're  quite 
as  miserable  as  if  you'd  never  heard  of  the  Ass, 
like  me — just  because  something  has  happened 
which  has  never  happened  to  you  before." 

Joan  said  nothing  and  Emily  went  on. 

"I've  never  contended  with  the  Ass  or  the  Re- 
naissance, because  I  know  I  haven't  the  brains.  So 
IVe  had  time  just  to  think  of  silly  homely  things, 
and  to  go  on  liking  "Excelsior"  and  "Won  by  Wait- 
ing," privately,  because  if  you  mention  things  like 
that,  it  gives  people  opportunities,  like  the  pitiable 
woman  in  green  trousers  whom  dear  Harold 
brought  from  Chelsea,  when  he  was  going  through 
that  phase!" 

"Dear,  dear,"  she  broke  off,  suddenly.  "I'm 
running  away  again.  What  I'm  trying  to  say,  Joan, 
is  that  I  don't  believe  we  are  happy  because  our 
husbands  are  ideal  men,  or  that  they  are  happy  be- 
cause we  are  ideal  women  .  .  . 

"We  thought  so  once,"  interjected  Joan. 

Emily  nodded. 

"Of  course  we  did.  That's  the  'Excelsior'  idea! 
It's  that  which  makes  us  happy.  Charlie  being 
made  capable  of  idealizing  a  foolish  thing  like  me 

211 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

and  me  able  to  idealize  him,  when  I  suppose,  really, 
he  ..." 

She  broke  off  again. 

"There  now,  she  said,  "I  can't  find  a  single: 
real  fault  in  him.  That's  what  I  mean." 

Joan  nodded  slowly. 

"You  mean,"  she  said,  "that  the  real  ideal  is  not 
in  the  object  but  in  ...  the  idea.  The  ca- 
pacity for  having  an  ideal  ,  .  .  and  you  think 
that  the  secret  of  life  is  to  remain  in  touch  with  that 
capacity  at  all  costs." 

Emily  cocked  her  head  a  little  on  one  side,  like 
a;  bird.  She  pursed  up  her  lips  and  frowned  a 
little. 

"Perhaps  that  is  what  I  mean,"  she  said,  "only 
though  I  can't  explain  it,  it  is  something  that  sounds 
simpler  than  that  to  me." 

"Then  what  will  you  do,  Emily,"  said  Joan  de- 
liberately, "if  Charles  goes  .  .  .  goes  off 
with  this  woman?" 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Emily.  "It  would 
Just  make  the  whole  of  me  seem  useless — I  know 
that's  a  thing  that  simply  revolts  you  modern-mind- 
ed women,  but  I  can't  help  it — that's  what  would 
happen  to  me.  Only,  I  don't  believe  in  it  any  more 
than  I  believe  that  the  moon's  going  to  fall  splash 
into  the  bay,  tonight.  No,  Joan,  it's  no  use  to  say 
that  I'm  idiotic;  because,  there  you  are,  in  a  hid- 
eous state  of  doubt,  wishing  you  were  idiotic  your- 
self!" 

212 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Then  you  aren't  afraid?"  said  Joan  slowly. 

Emily  rose  and  drew  the  old  dressing-gown  a- 
bout  her: 

"No,"  she  said,  "I  am  not  afraid." 

"I  envy  you,"  said  Joan,  from  the  door.  "I  am 
not  sure  yours  isn't  the  right  philosophy." 

"It's  not  a  philosophy,"  answered  Emily,  "it's 
me."  And  she  added  simply,  "Do  you  know,  I've 
often  been  glad  that  I'm  not  clever." 

"It  isn't  being  clever,"  cried  Joan.  "It's  not  be- 
ing clever  enough — only  just  like  the  bubbles  in 
boiling  water,  doing  all  the  show  part.  And  yet," 
she  added,  "I  don't  think  I've  ever  been  quite  like 
that." 

"Of  course  not,  dear,"  said  Emily,,  "if  you  were, 
you  wouldn't  be  afraid,  for  other  reasons.' 

Joan,  shutting  the  door,  came  suddenly  back  to 
her. 

"And  knowing  all  you  know,"  she  said,  "when 
Charles  comes  back  here  tonight — into  all  this  inti- 
macy which  was  such  terror  to  us  when  we  were  en- 
gaged, Emily — when  .  .  .  when  bed  became 
a  kind  of  nightmare  to  us  which  had  to  be  con- 
quered by  our  love  .  .  .  when  he  comes  back 
here  tonight,  what  will  you  do?" 

Her  hands  were  trembling  as  Emily  took  them 
in  her  own. 

"I've  told  you,  dear,"  she  said,  "that  I'm  a  silly 
old  woman.  I  shall  just  go  to  sleep  and,  half  way 
through  the  night,  Charlie  will  roll  over  quite  un- 

213 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

consciously  into  my  arms,  as  he  always  does:  and 
that's  how  he'll  wake  up  in  the  morning.  There, 
Joan,  I've  told  you  one  of  my  most  private  secrets — 
because  I'm  fond  of  you!  Goodnight,  dear!" 

She  held  Joan's  hand  for  a  moment,  and  Peter's 
wife  went  out  without  another  word.  It  was  not 
in  her  nature  to  treat  Peter  like  this.  She  walked 
along  the  passage  to  her  own  bedroom,  her  mind 
undecided,  revolutionary.  One  outstanding  fact 
remained  with  her,  insisting  that  she  should  look  at 
it,  like  the  blatant  fire  of  an  electric  advertisement. 
Emily,  that  living  shrine  of  inconsequent  folly,  could 
look  this  disaster  unflinchingly  in  the  face.  Emily 
had  resources  which  she  herself  had  never  taken 
pains  to  collect.  Before  her  door,  she  hesitated,  her 
fingers  round  the  handle.  It  was  going  to  be  quite 
impossible,  she  felt,  to  disguise  from  Peter  any 
longer  all  that  she  knew.  Her  nature,  though  in  a 
different  way,  was  as  downright  as  his  own,  and  her 
love,  no  less  intense  than  Emily's,  was  not  of  the 
kind  which,  at  such  a  juncture,  clings  fast  to  faith 
and  can  let  the  fact  slip  by. 

Tofnight  Peter  would  have  to  know.  She  opened 
the  door  softly  and  went  in  ... 

Below  Alison  leant  over  the  banisters  and  gave 
Harold  a  good-night  kiss.  Then  she  stood  back, 
her  hands  on  the  rail,  and  looked  down  at  his  up- 
turned face. 

"Harold,"  she  said,  "we  agreed  that  ours  should 
be  a  common-sense  life,  didn't  we?" 

214 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

He  nodded. 

"Well,"  she  went  on,  "here  we  are,  faced  with 
the  first  of  our  problems,  which  we've  got  to  learn 
to  discuss  without  sentiment.  What  do  you  think 
of  our  respective  fathers?" 

Harold  looked  quickly  about  him,  before  speak- 
ing. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  rather  pathetic,  "they 
should  be  old  enough  either  to  know  better— —or 
worse." 

Alison  nodded. 

"Exactly.  If  they  were  abandoned,  lecherous  old 
gentlemen  one  could  sympathise  with  them.  As  it 
is,  they  are  respectable  middle-aged  fathers,  and 
their  present  position  is  entirely  due  to  the  fact  that 
they  started  a  pace  of  sentiment  which  they  never 
had  an  earthly  chance  of  keeping  up.  Now  you  see, 
Harold,"  she  added  triumphantly,  "exactly  the  sort 
of  mess  which  you  and  I  are  avoiding  about  twenty 
years  hence!" 

He  nodded. 

"You  are  always  unanswerable,  darling,"  he  said, 
"so  I  suppose  that  you  are  always  right." 

She  laughed. 

"I  know  that  tone  of  voice,  Harry!"  she  said, 
gaily.  "I've  heard  it  from  your  father.  It  means 
that  one  has  made  a  conceited  remark.  Well,  if 
confidence  is  conceit,  I'm  full  of  it !" 

"And  with  you  by  my  side,  Alison,"  he  returned, 
"I'm  full  of  it  too!" 

215" 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Dear  Harold  1"  she  Said,  her  eyes  shining.  "Do 
you  know,  there's  no  picture  I  love  more  to  make 
for  myself,  than  the  picture  of  us  two,  as  strong 
...  as  strong  and  unbending  as  two  steel  bars  1" 

"Steel?"  he  echoed.  "I've  never  heard  love  com- 
pared to  that  before." 

"I  daresay  not,  Harry,"  She  answered.  "But 
you've  heard  of  the  bonds  of  love,  haven't  you? 
Well,  what  makes  the  strongest  kind  of  bonds  we 
know?" 

She  laughed  again,  and  shook  his  hand,  much  as 
a  man  friend  might  have  done,  to  say  goodnight. 
Harold  just  had  time  to  kiss  the  back  of  her,  hand 
before  she  withdrew  it. 

"Unanswerable,"  he  said,  "as  usual!"  He  fol- 
lowed her  with  his  eyes  as  far  as  the  turn  on  the 
landing,  but  his  desires  and  his  love  followed  her 
further  still,  beyond  any  bars  of  mere  steel  into  a 
region  so  mystical,  so  full  of  unknown  dangers  that 
he  dared  not  face  it.  He  crushed  these  things  back, 
pinning  his  faith  to  the  virile  confidence  of  Alison. 
Poor  Harold!  try  as  he  would,  he  lacked  a  great 
deal  of  modernity.  Something  in  his  nature  was 
always  trying  to  persuade  him  that  there  was  big- 
ger game  to  be  had  in  his  life  than  mere  efficiency. 


216 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

As  Joan  closed  the  door  of  her  bedroom  behind 
her,  she  became  aware  that  Peter  was  in  the  room, 
although,  coming  out  of  the  lighted  passage,  it  was 
some  moments  before  she  actually  saw  him.  But 
Peter,  whose  whole  being  had  been  intent  upon  the 
opening  of  that  door,  was  on  his  feet  and  half-way 
towards  her,  before  her  mind  had  registered  any- 
thing except  that  she  was  face  to  face  with  her  prob- 
lem. Then,  something  in  his  face,  in  the  humility 
of  his  gesture,  shocked  her:  shocked  her  in  the 
sense  that  it  was  utterly  unexpected,  like  the  calm, 
unreasonable  faith  of  Emily.  It  flashed  through 
'her  mind  that  Peter  was  going  to  confess  his  in- 
fatuation, that  he  was  going  to  grovel  and  be  sorry, 
comforting  his  own  passions  by  the  open  admission 
'that  he  had  failed  her.  Joan  knew  well  enough  that 
.there  is  a  certain  self-pride  in  every  confession  of 


She  experienced  a  desperate  hope  that  Peter 
iwould  confess  nothing,  that  he  would  not  knock 
away  from  beneath  him  hig  own  pedestal.  That 
jwould  be  shameful:  an  act  which  would  make  it 
hardly  important  enough  a  pedestal,  for  her  to  knock 
down  herself.  And  now  Peter  was  close  to  her. 
His  big  hands  stole  round  her  cheeks  and  framed 
Jjer  face.  And  in  hit  toucht  th^rq  was  some  subtk 

•  17 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

contact  which  threw  her  reason  right  out  of  the 
fight,  so  that  she  seemed  to  slip  back  to  some  period, 
separated,  by  the  mere  test  of  time,  by  many  years, 
but  always  apparently,  by  some  miracle,  potentially 
present.    Breathlessly  still,  but  (again  the  miracle), 
no  longer  fearfully,  she  listened  for  his  words. 
"My  girl.     My  very  wise,  patient  girl!" 
She  stood  limp,  revelling.     It  was  a  long  time 
since  she  had  heard  the  soft  notes  in  Peter's  strong 
voice. 

"Little  Joan  Funk  I"  he  went  on,  with  a  happy 
rippling  laugh.  "That's  what  I  called  you  in  the 
canoe  at  Somming!" 

"And  you,"  she  said,  "were  Peter  Rash." 
"I  lived  up  to  my  name,"  he  answered,  "but  you 
never  did." 

And  she  realized,  with  relief,  that  this  was  all  of 
his  confession.  She  could  not  have  borne,  at  that 
moment,  to  hear  Peter  abase  himself.  And  now, 
too,  she  understood  that  something  unexpected  had 
happened,  something  which  had  thrown  the  whole 
machinery  of  the  situation  out  of  gear.  But  the 
situation  seemed  no  longer  to  matter.  Peter  had 
thrown  back  to  that  other  man  who  for  many  years 
had  been  a  memory,  a  memory  by  which  the  wonder 
of  Peter  had  still  lived  on  with  her,  though  who 
can  say  that  it  had  not  been  growing,  albeit  uncon- 
sciously, more  anaemic  while  the  original  picture 
slipped  further  and  further  away?  At  least,  how- 
ever, it  had  not  grown  so  feeble,  but  this  single 
moment  could  bring  it  to  life  again,  as  yivid,  as 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

joyous  as  ever.  She  felt  young  at  his  touch,  as  if 
her  very  body  had  followed  her  flying  mind,  back 
through  the  years — and  she  knew,  by  Peter's  touch, 
that  he,  too,  was  feeling  young.  She  closed  her  eyes, 
as  women  will,  when  they  are  entirely  happy. 

"Oh,  Peter,"  she  murmured,  "have  you  fallen  in 
love  with  me — all  over  again?" 

"If  I  may,"  he  answered. 

Her  heart  beat  fast  with  excitement.  In  his 
answer  she  read,  not  only  that  the  old  romantic 
desires  were  alive  once  more,  but  that  Peter  even 
wanted  to  woo  her  again  ...  to  woo  her,  Joan, 
not  many  years  removed  from  an  old  woman. 
What  magician's  wand  had  touched  Peter  on  the 
shoulder,  and  given  him  the  priceless  knowledge 
that  no  woman  ever  loses  her  desire  to  be  sought  I 
The  question  flashed  through  her  brain,  only  to 
be  flung  out  immediately. 

It  didn't  matter!     It  didn't  matter! 

For  it  was  his  voice  she  heard  asking  her 
whether  she  was  too  tired  to  sit  on  the  balcony  with 
him  for  a  few  minutes.  It  was  his  hand  that  drew 
her  towards  the  open  window,  and  tenderly  placed 
behind  her  neck  the  garish  cushion  in  the  wicker 
chair.  It  was  his  chair  that  moved  stealthily  nearer 
to  her  own,  as  she  sat  still  and  silent,  in  the  deep 
quiet  of  an  unbelievable  joy — and,  when  the  big 
light  over  the  front  door  was  suddenly  eclipsed,  as 
the  Jubilee  clock  struck  twelve,  it  was  his  arm  that 
slipped  round  her,  in  the  kindly  darkness,  drew 
her  from  her  chair  to  his  own,  and  with  a  gentle  shy- 

219 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

ness  which  hinted  nothing  of  ownership,  held  her 
upon  his  knee  and  against  his  breast,  ridiculously 
proud,  amazingly  happy. 

"It  is  a  dream,"  she  murmured  to  herself. 

Then  she  felt  his  lips  wandering  about  her  hair. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "It's  a  dream,  dear.  I 
have  never  valued  dreams  enough.  This  time  it  will 
be  different.  We  are  not  going  to  wake  up." 

She  slipped  an  arm  round  his  neck  and  sighed. 

"Baby  Peter,"  she  whispered  contentedly,  then 
snuggled  closer,  and,  from  sheer  happiness,  fell 
asleep.  Peter  was  not  ashamed  at  the  tears  which 
stood  in  his  eyes.  The  night  hid  them  from  the 
world,  while  his  soul  hugged  them  to  himself.  He 
felt  her  soft  body  breathing,  like  a  child's,  against 
his  own.  He  heard  the  caressing  murmur  of  the 
sea  upon  the  pebbles.  But  the  night  was  very  dark. 
He  could  not  even  be  certain  of  the  bold  outline  of 
the  great  white  cliff.  Everything  seemed  to  have 
conspired  to  make  the  world  a  little  private  place 
for  him  and  Joan.  And  at  that  moment  Peter's 
reason  deserted  him  for  good.  He  even  found  him- 
self well  able  to  believe  the  strange  Lady's  explana- 
tion of  herself — that  explanation  which  he  had 
described  as  preposterous.  The  trite  old  quotation 
came  into  his  mind:  "There;  are  more  things  in 
Heaven  and  Earth " 

"And  especially  in  Heaven,"  murmured  the 
Editor,  ending  his  thoughts  aloud. 


220 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Thus  Peter  and  Joan  accepted  the  miracle.  Per- 
haps they  realized  that  this  thing  which  had  hap- 
pened would  not  bear  talking  about  or  dissecting: 
that  it  was  a  gift,  more  valued  perhaps  because 
not  altogether  deserved,  to  be  accepted  with  the 
same  glad  wonder  as  the  gift  of  life  itself.  Vaguely 
enough,  in  after  years,  Peter,  whose  passionate 
reason  ever  refused  to  be  completely  denied,  did  try 
to  philosophise  over  his  own  good  fortune.  The 
conclusion  he  arrived  at  was  that  the  perfect  lover 
must  fall  in  love  twice — once  in  the  divine  glow  of 
gambling  youth,  and,  years  later,  once  again — with 
something  very  akin  to  that  original  glow,  but  with 
a  finer  appreciation  of  its  divinity,  and  a  more  stable 
affection  for  the  girl  who  had  once  called  so  loudly 
and  absolutely  to  the  boy  in  him.  The  Editor, 
having  arrived  at  this  conclusion,  even  thought  of 
writing  an  article  about  it,  but  decided  that  he  be- 
lieved in  the  idea  too  much,  to  be  able  to  make  it 
convincing  in  his  paper,  and  wisely  refrained.  As 
for  Joan,  whose  brain  also  would  not  be  denied,  she 
poured  forth  the  full  measure  of  her  joy  in  verse — 
verse  that,  by  reason  of  her  intense  feeling,  neither 
scanned  nor  rhymed,  though,  without  doubt,  it  con- 
tained more  sheer  colour  in  its  lines  than  many  a 

221 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

professional  poet  achieves  in  a  life's  work.  But, 
just  as  Peter  abandoned  the  idea  of  his  article,  so 
Joan  tore  up  her  verses,  content  to  accept  so  won- 
derful a  gift,  without  attempting  an  expression  of 
thanks. 

As  for  the  immediate  effect  upon  her,  when  she 
woke  up,  hardly  daring  to  imagine  that  this  was 
anything  but  a  dream,  and  discovered  a  new  Peter, 
or  rather  the  old  Peter,  beside  her,  it  was  natural 
enough.  Her  thoughts  flew  to  her  daughter,  and 
all  the  misgivings  about  her  engagement,  which  had 
been  submerged  by  the  imminence  of  her  own 
troubles,  rose  to  the  surface  again.  As  for  Peter, 
he  was  quite  definitely  shy  of  appearing  at  the  break- 
fast table.  He  was  silly  enough  to  imagine,  like  any 
love-sick  youth,  that  everyone  would  read  his  in- 
fatuation in  his  face.  He  therefore  arrived  late  in 
a  state  of  absurdly  loud  and  forced  heartiness.  He 
proposed  various  plans  for  the  day,  which  to  the 
surprise  of  Loxbury  and  Doctor  Weare,  included  no 
interval  for  golf — and,  in  the  back  of  his  mind,  he 
was  tortuously  planning  how  he  might  spend  the 
greater  part  of  the  twelve  hours  alone  with  his  wife. 
Charles,  too,  curiously  enough,  seemed  to  have  no 
special  inclination  towards  the  links,  and,  for  some 
odd  reason  or  other,  refused  to  catch  Peter's  eyes. 
However,  in  spite  of  the  machinations  of  her  father, 
Alison  bore  Joan  off  to  the  usual  morning  on  the 
beach  and  Emily  and  Loveday  Weare  followed  in 
their  train.  The  Doctor  and  Loxbury  went  up  to 

222 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

the  links  alone,  and  so  Peter  and  Charles  found 
themselves  in  the  very  last  position  they  desired, 
that  of  forced  companions  for  the  morning.  As  the 
Editor  rose  from  the  table  he  stole  a  glance  at  the 
table  where  the  strange  lady  was  used  to  sit.  Her 
chair  was  empty  and  its  emptiness  afforded  him  a 
strange  feeling  of  relief.  Turning  back,  he  just 
caught  Charles  in  the  act  of  looking  away  quickly 
from  that  same  chair.  Peter  very  nearly  laughed. 
Poor  old  Charles !  He  could  have  the  field  to  him- 
self, now.  Only,  of  course,  Peter  Margett  could 
not  tell  him  so:  that  would  involve  giving  away 
happenings  too  private  even  to  be  whispered.  He 
heard  the  others,  in  the  hall,  fussing  about  towels 
and  bathing  costumes.  Curse  it!  He  would  have 
liked  to  have  been  fussing  too ;  anything  rather  than 
being  condemned  to  a  whole  morning  with  Charles 
alone. 

"Might  as  well  sit  outside  somewhere?"  said 
Cutman,  and  Peter  nodded  assent.  They  found 
themselves  walking  down  that  part  of  the  beach 
which  lay  opposite  to  the  hotel.  Peter,  with  all  his 
years  of  journalistic  experience,  had  never  known 
himself  so  bereft  of  words.  Was  it  possible  to 
spend  the  morning  with  Charles,  without  broaching 
the  subject  of  the  strange  lady?  That  was  the  only 
thing  which  appeared  to  him,  at  the  moment,  as 
being  of  supreme  importance.  He  could  not  help 
remembering  his  last  conversation  with  Charles, 
upon  this  point,  and  came  as  near  to  a  blush,  as  he 

223 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

had  for  twenty  years,  when  he  called  it  to  mind. 
It  seemed  now  like  a  scene  in  a  very  cheap  drama. 
He  would  have  to  remember  that  Charles  was  still 
in  that  absurd  state  of  mind.  A  few  yards  of  shade, 
beneath  the  side  of  a  boat,  caught  his  eye. 

"Here's  a  place  out  of  the  sun,"  he  said,  "let's  sit 
here  and  smoke  the  best  pipe  of  the  day." 

Charles  grunted  assent  and  they  settled  them- 
selves upon  the  stones,  leaning  uncomfortably  back 
upon  the  receding  timbers  of  the  boat. 

"Somehow  or  other,"  said  the  barrister,  after  a 
pause,  "I  didn't  feel  like  eighteen  holes  this  morn- 
mg." 

"No.    Nor  I,"  answered  Peter,  feebly. 

"Heat,  perhaps,"  volunteered  the  other. 

"I  expect  that's  it." 

The  Editor,  in  his  inmost  self,  was  damning  the 
futility  of  his  reply,  at  the  same  time  as  he  cast 
about  desperately  for  some  possible  topic  of  con- 
versation. He  realized  that  banalities  such  as  these 
could  not  proceed  for  long  between  Charles  and 
himself,  friends  of  twenty  years  standing,  without 
either  hysteria  or  violence. 

Charles  was  going  through  exactly  the  same 
agony  of  mind,  wondering  how  on  Earth  he  was 
going  to  avoid,  through  a  long  morning,  any  refer- 
ence to  the  lady  who  had  been  the  cause  of  that 
scene  in  the  billiard  room,  now  so  obviously  and 
ineffably  ridiculous. 

A  long  silence  obtained  between  the  two  men. 

224 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Charles  shifted  uneasily,  and,  with  a  half-formed 
thought  that  the  action  might  make  him  appear 
more  natural,  picked  up  a  stone  with  his  left  hand 
and  attempted  to  throw  it  carelessly  into  the  sea. 
Unfortunately,  his  brain  being  occupied  with  more 
important  matters,  he  released  his  hold  upon  the 
stone  too  soon,  and  it  went  spinning  away  at  a  right 
angle  to  his  body,  disappearing,  some  twenty  yards 
distant,  over  the  bows  of  another  fishing-boat. 

Peter  sat  up  sharply. 

"Look  out,  Charles  I"  he  said,  "what  on  earth  are 
you  doing?" 

"Went  off  unexpectedly,"  muttered  Charles.  As 
no  agonized  screams  of  pain  came  from  the  other 
side  of  the  boat,  and  no  outraged  and  furious  figure 
appeared  from  behind  her,  Peter  leant  back  again, 
though  the  sudden  feeling  of  alarm,  which  he  had 
experienced,  left  him  irritable. 

"Damned  silly  thing  to  do!"  he  said  crossly. 
"You  might  have  killed  someone." 

"I  tell  you  it  went  off  unexpectedly,"  repeated 
Charles. 

"Then  all  I  can  say,  Charles,  is  that  if  you've 
got  so  little  control  over  your  muscles,  you'd  better 
give  up  throwing  stones." 

Peter  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  extremely  thank- 
ful for  this  opportunity  of  irritating  Charles  and 
making  any  attempt  at  confidences  between  them, 
less  likely,  thereby.  He  therefore  put  into  his  voice 
a  great  deal  more  venom  than  he  felt.  But  Charles, 

225 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

being,  as  he  was,  in  a  state  of  happiness  not  one 
iota  removed,  in  sheer  idiocy,  from  Peter's  own,  re- 
fused to  be  annoyed. 

"Something  has  upset  you,"  he  answered  cheer- 
fully, "and  I  think  I  can  guess  what  it  is." 

The  Editor  turned  sharply  towards  him. 

"I've  been  a  fool  in  a  certain  matter  we  know  of," 
went  on  Charles  awkwardly — "I  might  as  well 
admit  it  to  you.  It's  more  honest — and,  besides, 
I'd  like  to." 

Peter  stared  at  him.  He  had  thought  that  he  had 
the  essentials  of  the  situation  between  them  well 
defined,  but  this  remark  was  quite  foreign  to  his 
expectations.  Since  he  could  hit  upon  no  immediate 
answer,  he  fell  back  upon  a  demand  for  explanation, 
couched,  as  he  hoped,  in  a  tone  sufficiently  uninter- 
ested as  to  excite  no  suspicion  of  anything  but  polite 
mystification. 

"You  mean?"  he  queried,  digging  his  walking- 
stick  into  the  stones. 

"I  saw  her  last  night,"  said  Charles,  obviously 
ill  at  ease,  but  determined  to  make  a  clean  breast  of 
things  to  his  friend.  "I  had  an  idea  that  I  saw  you 
along  the  passage,  as  I  went  into  her  room,  and, 
after  what  happened  between  us,  Peter,  I  expect  it 
galled  you  to  see  me  going  in  there.  I  ...  I 
can  quite  understand  it  galling  you  horribly — only 
.  .  .  it's  .  .  .  it's  awfully  difficult  to  explain 
this,  Peter — but,  it  needn't  worry  you  a  bit.  That 
is  ...  not  in  the  way  you  think." 

226 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

He  broke  off,  and  Peter,  half  recognizing  the 
truth  of  what  had  actually  happened,  was  capable  of 
nothing  but  silence.  The  barrister,  sturdy  even  in 
his  embarrassment,  continued. 

"What  I  mean,  Peter,  is  that,  as  far  as  I'm  con- 
cerned, that's  all  over.  I  might  just  as  well  tell  the 
truth,  because  in  this  case,  the  truth  is  ...  is 
just  about  the  most  wonderful  thing  that  has  hap- 
pened to  me  since  the  .  .  .  the  laburnum  tree  I 
told  you  about.  Only,  just  the  fact  that  it  is  all 
over,  is  all  I  need  really  tell  you,  except  .  ..." 

At  this  point  Charles  became  more  awkward  than 
ever  and  started  to  play,  pointedly,  with  his  watch- 
chain. 

"Except  what?"  echoed  Peter,  who,  having  now 
guessed  everything,  could  find  nothing  to  say. 

"Well,"  answered  Charles,  slowly,  "You  know, 
old  man,  that  I'm  not  of  the  preaching  kind,  but  I'm 
not  sure  that  you  might  not  find  it  worth  while 
.  .  .  that  is,  I  know  I'm  the  last  fellow  to  give 
advice  to  anyone — but  .  .  .  well,  I'm  not  sure 
that  chaps  of  our  age  won't  find  something  much 
better  by  looking  behind  'em  than  by  looking  in 
front  of  'em!" 

He  broke  off  suddenly,  and  was  silent,  as  shy  of 
his  own  remarks,  as  a  schoolboy  betrayed,  unex- 
pectedly, into  a  confidence.  The  Editor  also  re- 
mained silent.  He  was  so  annoyed  at  the  idea  of 
Charles  giving  him  the  very  advice  which  he  him- 
self had  half  thought  he  ought  to  hand  out  to  the 

227 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

barrister,  that  he  simply  could  not  find  anything 
whatever  to  say..  This  had  the  unfortunate  result 
of  emboldening  Charles. 

"If  I  thought,"  he  said,  "that  you  were  the  kind 
of  fool  who  would  imagine  I  had  got  up  on  a  sort 
of  moral  throne  and  started  chucking  warnings  at 
you,  I'd  not  say  another  word.  Only  I  really  have 
got  an  idea,  Peter,  that  you  and  I  ...  er  ... 
turned  up  the  wrong  street  together.  I  mean, 
that  when  you  said  there  was  'no  secret'  you  made 
one  of  your  few  howlers,  old  chap.  Fact  is,"  he 
added,  with  a  little  nervous  laugh,  "that  the  .  .  . 
the  laburnum  tree  is  really  every  bit  as  wonderful  as 
when  you  first  caught  sight  of  it,  even  if  you  go  and 
transplant  it  to  your  own  front  garden,  and  pass  it 
every  day  for  years  and  years  1" 

"Those  arn't  your  own  words,  Charles,"  an- 
swered Peter.  "That  is  what  she  said  to  you." 

Charles  turned  quickly  to  him,  startled. 

"And  so,"  went  on  the  Editor,  "she  did  it  to  you 
as  well!" 

And  suddenly  he  began  to  laugh,  because  Peter 
really  possessed  a  keen  sense  of  humour,  and  he  saw 
now  that,  however  amazing  the  miracle,  however 
splendid  its  results,  it  had,  like  everything  else,  its 
yery  laughable  side.  Charles  regarded  the  paroxysms 
of  his  friend,  first  with  annoyance,  and  then  with  real 
alarm.  Not  unnaturally,  since  he  had  not  yet 
guessed  the  truth,  he  could  see  nothing  funny  in  the 
situation. 

228 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"What  the  devil  is  the  matter  with  you,  Peter?" 
he  said,  and  then  as  the  Editor's  laughter  in  no 
way  abated — "Very  well,  if  you  see  anything  to 
laugh  at !  ...  Only,  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  that, 
it  was  only  because  you  are  an  old  friend,  that  I  felt 
I  ought  to  say  anything  at  all  about  it  to  you." 

Peter  pulled  himself  together  quickly  and  laid  a 
hand  on  his  companion's  arm. 

"No,  no,  Charles,"  he  said.  "There  isn't  any- 
thing to  laugh  at  really.  It's  more  a  case  for  a  'Te 
Deum,'  and  I  know  it.  Only  .  .  .  only,  you 
see — "  and  his  voice  shook  again — "I  must  have 
come  out  from  the  operating-room  only  thirty 
seconds  before  you  went  in!" 

"She  asked  you  to  come  to  her  last  night,  as 
well  I" 

Peter  nodded. 

"And  what  would  have  happened,"  went  on 
Charles,  "if  we  had  both  arivcd  at  once?" 

The  other  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered,  "but  I  have  suffi- 
cient belief  in  her,  to  imagine  she  would  have  found 
some  way  out  of  the  situation." 

Charles  nodded,  in  his  turn. 

"What  is  she?"  he  whispered  suddenly,  "a  hypno- 
tist?" 

The  Editor  countered  with  another  question. 

"What  did  she  do  to  you?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing  very  much.  She  looked  at  me,  Peter, 
smiled  and  just  .  .  ,  talked  I  Queer  thing 

229 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

was  that  I  began  to  feel  a  fool  almost  immediately. 
And — a  queerer  thing — she  seemed  to  know  all 
about  the  laburnum  tree  and  any  number  of  things 
about  Emily,  which  I  ought  to  have  guessed  ages 
ago.  I  suppose  that  is  what  happened  to  you?" 

Again  Peter  shook  his  head,  but  without  a  smile. 

"No,  Charles,"  he  said,  "I  am  afraid  I  was  a 
harder  case.  I'm  never  going  to  tell  a  soul  what 
happened  to  me.  Oh,"  he  added,  in  a  tone  of 
admiration,  "she  gauged  us  both  marvellously — the 
disappointed  sentimentalist  and — the — the  would-be 
strong  man." 

Normally,  Charles  would  have  taken  immediate 
offence  at  these  words,  but,  at  the  moment,  his  mind 
was  too  much  occupied  with  his  own  thoughts.  He 
hardly  heard  what  Peter  had  said. 

"She  puzzles  me,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  "I 
can't  imagine  who  she  is,  or  where  she  comes  from 
or  how  she  has  got  so  much  ...  so  much  .  .  ." 
he  hesitated  and  Peter  broke  in. 

"Inside  information?"  he  suggested.  "Why, 
Charles,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  you  never  asked 
her?" 

"Asked  her?"  queried  Charles  vaguely.  EvU 
dently  the  idea  had  never  entered  his  head.  Cer- 
tainly the  barrister's  had  been  an  easier  case  than 
Peter's. 

"Why,  did  you?"  he  went  on,  intensely  interested 
in  Peter  all  of  a  sudden. 

The  other  nodded. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  "I  asked  her."     The  intona- 

230 


WHERE   YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

tion  might  have  warned  Charles  that  the  answer  to 
the  question  had  been  unexpected,  but  he  missed  it. 

"And  she  told  you,"  he  asked,  "who  she  was?" 

"No,  Charles,"  answered  the  Editor.  "She  told 
me  that  she  didn't  exist  at  all!" 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Charles,  "what  on  earth  did 
she  mean  by  that?" 

"Last  night,"  returned  Peter,  "I  thought  it  was 
a  playful  way  of  telling  me  that  she  had  no  inten- 
tion of  giving  herself  away.  This  morning  I  am 
not  so  sure." 

"Not  so  sure?"  echoed  the  other.  "Why,  good 
heavens,  Peter,  what  on  earth  do  you  mean?" 

But  what  Peter  meant  was  not  destined  to  appear 
at  that  moment.  A  medley  of  voices  sounded  behind 
them,  breaking  in,  with  the  startling  suddenness  of 
an  explosion,  upon  the  extreme  privacy  of  their 

conversation. They  caught  only  a  jumbled  sense 

of  if 

"Hold  hard,  Ted  .  .  Blast  .  ...  eh,  what's 
that?  Bide  a  bit,  I  tell  'ee — what's  that?  .  .  . 
Now,  all  together!"  And  then  in  a  kind  of  tense 
shout.'  "Nao!  hold  hard,  I  say!  .'••".  ."  followed 
by  a  sudden  shifting  of  the  boat  behind  them  and  an 
equally  sudden  jerk,  as  she  stopped.  Then  the 
familiar  voice  of  Ted  Willis  himself,  calm  and 
authoritative.  "Steady  all!  What's  the  trouble, 
Walter?"  After  which,  the  voice  of  Walter,  in  the 
complacently  protesting  tone  of  one  who  has  seen 
something,  which  others  have  missed. 

231 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"There  be  a  couple  o'  blasted  fools  sitting  under 
the  side  of  her.  I  seed  'em.  We'll  crack  their  heads 
like  seaweed  pods,  in  a  jiffy,  shifting  the  boat!" 

Charles  and  Peter  realized  simultaneously  that 
the  blasted  fools  referred  to,  were  themselves. 
They  got  up  quickly,  meeting  the  four  or  five  heads 
now  peering  round  the  stern  of  Ted  Willis'  boat. 

"Sorry,"  said  Peter,  "we  had  no  idea  that  you 
were  going  to  run  the  boat  down." 

"Deaf  as  weasels!"  protested  the  voice  of  him 
who  had  been  addressed  as  Walter,  but  Willis,  as 
usual,  swept  his  hat  from  his  head  with  the  gesture 
and  the  smile  of  a  courtier. 

"Mr.  Cutman'and  Mr.  Margett!"  he  said,  in  a 
tone  which  combined,  most  felicitously,  a  note  of 
welcome  and  surprise.  "So  it  is  my  property  that 
has  provided  a  piece  of  shade  for  you  this  hot  morn- 
ing? Very  proud,  I.  am  sure." 

Charles  smiled  to  him. 

"We've  been  trespassing,"  he  said,  "at  least  we 
can  pay  a  fine  by  lending  a  hand !" 

They  joined  with  the  fishermen  and  boys,  in 
shoving  the  boat  down  to  the  water's  edge.  She 
was  a  heavy  craft,  broad  in  the  beam,  and,  when  her 
bows  lay  in  the  surf,  caressed  by  the  little  waves,  as 
if  they  were  trying  to  tempt  her  out  to  sea,  her 
sponsors,  in  the  launching,  were  mostly  out  of 
breath. 

"Is  the  sun  too  hot,  gentlemen,"  said  the  fisher- 
man, "for  me  to  tempt  you  out  with  me?" 

232 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

The  invitation  was  welcome  to  them  both.  Men 
hate  nothing  more  than  being  forced  to  exchange 
confidences,  however  old  and  tried  their  friend- 
ship may  be.  In  the  boat  they  would  have  the 
advantage  of  the  chilly  influence  of  a  chaperone. 
They  jumped  at  the  idea. 

"Then  perhaps,"  said  Willis,  "you  will  get  in 
now  ?  We  can  shove  her  out  well  enough,  and  Lon- 
don-made trousers  don't  stand  the  salt  water  too 
well!" 

Ten  minutes  later  the  beach  had  become  imper- 
sonal. They  looked  along  its  stretch,  to  the  little 
white  bathing  tents  under  the  great  cliff,  with  the 
same  vague  feeling  of  superiority  of  position,  with 
which  an  audience  regards  a  play.  Such  is  the  great 
gulf  created  by  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  sea. 

The  old  fisherman  sat  in  the  stern,  smoking  the 
pipe  which  seemed  as  much  one  of  his  limbs,  as  his 
legs  and  arms. 

"Lobster  pots?"  asked  the  Editor  suddenly. 

The  old  man  nodded. 

"I've  a  dozen,"  he  answered,  "half  a  mile  out 
from  Sanscombe  Rocks." 

They  sailed  on  in  silence  for  another  fifteen 
minutes. 

"There's  a  couple  of  lines;  under  your  feet,  Mr. 
Cutman,"  said  Willis  at  last,  "and  a  bit  of  bait  in 
a  mug,  you'll  see.  If  you've  a  mind  to  throw  a  hook 
overboard,  maybe  you'd  earn  your  breakfast!" 

"Right  O,"  returned  Charlcg  and  busied  himself 

233 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

with  the  tackle.  He  trailed  the  line  carelessly  over 
the  side,  letting  it  slip  slowly  through  his  fingers. 
Peter,  as  the  boat  slid  beyond  the  limits  of  the  bay, 
let  his  eye  range  along  the  coast  appreciatively. 

"What's  the  use  of  talking  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean?" he  said.  "There's  no  coast  to  beat  Devon, 
on  a  day  like  this.  Look  at  the  sun  picking  out  the 
red  and  the  green!" 

"It's  a  gay,  fine  coast,"  assented  the  fisherman, 
"but  in  the  South  the  picture's  different.  There  the 
colour  is  in  the  water,  don't  you  think,  sir?  It's 
a  great  show,  but  it  changes  every  hour.  Here's 
a  picture  you  can  rely  on — like  an  old,  tried  love,  it 
is.  It  will  never  let  you  down.  Maybe  that's  why 
I,  who  have  seen  the  world,  sir, — and  many  a  coast 
so  fine  that  you  catch  your  breath  as  you  see  it — 
maybe  that's  why  I  still  like  Devon  best." 

"I  daresay,"  began  Charles,  "that  there  is  some- 
thing in  that.  But  all  the  same  .  .  ." 

His  sentence  broke  off  abruptly  and,  with  no 
apparent  explanation  his  body  shot  so  violently 
across  the  side  of  the  boat  that  the  Editor  grabbed 
his  left  arm. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  at,  Charles?"  he 
shouted. 

"All  right!"  came  the  answer  from  the  barrister, 
straining  over  the  side.  "Get  a  hold  on  this  line !" 

The  fisherman  threw  the  tiller  over,  bringing  the 
boat  round  towards  the  struggling  Charles.  Peter, 
by  this  time,  was  hauling  upon  the  line. 

234 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"What  on  earth  has  happened?"  he  said.  But 
the  barrister  was  now  back  in  his  seat,  looking  at 
Willis. 

"I  was  jolly  near  pulled  out  of  the  boat,"  he  said. 
"Can't  imagine  why  the  line  doesn't  break!" 

"Take  the  tiller,  Mr.  Margett,"  said  the  fisher- 
man, "and  we'll  see  what's  at  the  end  of  that  line. 
Keep  her  turning  towards  the  pull."  Peter  obeyed 
orders,  as  Willis  came  down  to  Cutman's  side.  His 
brown  hand  slipped  out  along  the  line,  till  it  was 
under  the  water. 

"You've  the  wrong  line,"  he  said,  then,  turning — 
"Make  her  fast  round  the  seat,  sir!"  Cutman  did 
as  he  was  told. 

"It's  a  wonder  she's  not  snapped,  all  the  same," 
the  old  man  muttered.  "Follow  the  pull,  Mr.  Mar- 
gett, follow  the  pull!  It  all  depends  on  you,  sir, 
whether  we  see  the  sea-serpent  before  the  line 
snaps!" 

He  chuckled  to  himself,  straining  gently  at  the 
taut  thread  running  into  the  water. 

"What  bait  did  you  use  for  this  monster,  Mr. 
Cutman?"  he  asked. 

"Why,"  answered  the  barrister,  excitedly — "Just 
a  slip  of  mackerel,  from  the  tin!  What  is  it, 
Willis?" 

"Ye'd  not  catch  a  whale  with  a  piece  of  mackerel, 
Mr.  Cutman.  Maybe  it's  a  mermaid  that's  missed 
her  breakfast.  Hand  over,  Mr.  Margett,  or  she'll 
snap  the  line, — she's  away  off,  under  the  boat!" 

235 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Suddenly  the  line  sagged  and  grew  limp  in  his 
fingers. 

"There  I"  said  the  barrister.     "It's  gone." 

"I  don't  know  about  that!"  answered  the  fisher- 
man, pulling  in  the  slack  line,  cautiously,  while  his 
eyes  rested  on  the  water  some  twenty  yards  away. 
A  little  patch,  bubbling  and  seething,  appeared  on 
the  calm  sea,  like  a  miniature  whirlpool. 

"That's  your  fish,  sir,"  said  Willis.  "Look  hard, 
for  I'm  afraid  that's  about  all  we're  likely  to  see  of 
him!" 

A  long,  glistening  back  turned  over  just  above  the 
water,  and  disappeared  incredibly  quickly;  equally 
instantaneous  in  its  appearance  and  departure  was 
a  huge  tail.  It  hit  the  water  with  a  great  smack  and 
threw  up  a  little  column  of  spray.  Then  the  sea 
closed  over  the  victim,  silently. 

"Good  Lord,"  said  Cutman,  "is  it  a  porpoise?" 

"No,  sir,"  answered  the  old  man,  "he's  a  blue 
shark." 

"A  shark!"  said  Margett,  "taking  a  slip  of 
mackerel!" 

The  fisherman  laughed. 

"No,  sir,"  he  returned,  "The  poor  fellow  is  even 
more  astonished  than  Mr.  Cutman.  He's  been  foul- 
hooked." 

The  line  tightened  again* 

"By  George,"  shouted  the  barrister,  with  the  sud- 
den enthusiasm  of  a  schoolboy,  "can't  we  land 
him?" 

236 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"We  can  try,  sir.  But's  a  marvel  the  line  has 
lasted  so  long." 

Even  as  he  spoke  it  became  slack  again,  and  the 
old  man  pulled  at  it  hard.  There  was  no  resistance. 
He  hauled  in  the  broken  line,  coiling  it  deftly  round 
its  frame. 

"He's  away,  sir,"  he  said,  "with  a  silly  little  hook 
in  his  side  that  will  make  him  the  laughing  stock  of 
every  self-respecting  blue-nose  in  the  channell" 

He  put  away  the  line  and  resumed  his  place  at 
the  stern. 

"Pity,"  said  Margett  to  his  friend,  "that  you 
can't  take  him  home  to  Emily." 

Charles  laughed,  as  if  Peter  had  made  a  very 
good  joke.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  would  have 
liked  exceedingly  to  have  taken  the  shark  home  to 
Emily.  He  knew  that  Emily  would  have  been 
rather  thrilled — whether  it  was  foul-hooked  or  not. 
He  looked  sideways  at  the  Editor  and  gave  another 
little  laugh. 

"I  hardly  think  Emily  would  have  appreciated 
the  gift!"  he  lied,  and  heard  Peter  chuckle.  Of 
course,  he  thought,  Margett  was  not  the  kind  of 
man  to  retain  this  kind  of  enthusiasm..  He  had  to 
admit  to  himself  that  it  really  was  a  schoolboyish 
kind  of  idea.  But  then  superiority,  of  any  kind,  is 
mostly  on  the  surface.  Underneath  .  .  .  but 
Peter,  even  after  twenty  years,  could  not  be  admitted 
underneath.  Charles,  gazing  at  the  ripples,  racing 
past  the  side  of  the  boat,  wondered  whether  there 
had  ever  been  such  a  thing  as  a  friend  who  could 

237 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

be  admitted  underneath.  Peter,  anyway,  had  too 
little  sympathy  with  any  kind  of  weakness.  Mean- 
while, the  Editor,  smoking  a  cigarette  by  his  side, 
was  actually  engaged  in  wishing  that  he  had  caught 
a  shark,  rather  bigger  than  Charles',  which  he  might 
lay  at  the  feet  of  Joan.  Also,  like  the  barrister,  he 
was  admitting  to  himself  the  childishness  of  such  a 
wish,  and  thinking  how  impossible  it  would  be  to 
tell  Charles  of  so  ridiculous  an  idea. 

The  business  of  the  lobster-pots  cut  short  these 
ruminations,  and  interested  the  two  men  for  some 
minutes.  In  due  course,  they  were  on  the  beach 
again,  had  thanked  Ted  Willis  heartily  for  his  hos- 
pitality, and  were  on  the  way  up  to  the  hotel,  for 
lunch.  The  old  man  followed  them  up  the  beach, 
with  his  eyes. 

"  'Are  they  unhappy?'  she  asked  me,"  he  mur- 
mured, and  then  with  a  chuckle — "I  reckon  she 
knew  well  enough ! — an'  now  something's  happened 
to  'em  .  .  .  Mr.  Cutman  was  as  keen  as  a  lad 
for  that  shark!" 

He  coiled  a  length  of  rope  round  his  arm  and 
looked  at  it  meditatively. 

"You're  an  old  man,  full  up  with  a  deal  of  queer 
ideas,"  he  said  to  himself,  "but — I  wonder  whether 
you're  right  this  time?  If  so,"  he  added,  "she'll  be 
back — back  where  I  believe  she  came  from,  by 
now !"  Then  he  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  threw 
the  coil  of  rope  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  After 
which  he  stood  up,  shaking  his  head,  like  a  dog 
shaking  off  the  wet. 

238 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Willis,"  he  said,  sternly,  "if  you're  old  fool 
enough  to  think  in  fairy  tales,  why  don't  you  write 
'em  and  earn  an  honest  penny!" 

He  strode  up  the  beach.  By  the  rusty  old  wind- 
lass below  the  promenade,  he  stopped  and  shook  his 
head. 

"There's  others,"  he  murmured,  "foul-hooked  to 
an  idea,  like  Mr.  Cutman  and  the  shark;  maybe 
they'll  spend  most  of  their  lives  trying  to  land  it — 
but  the  line's  got  to  snap  in  the  end.  Better  for 
them  if  it  goes  at  the  first  tug,  I'm  thinking!" 

He  turned  on  his  way  and  disappeared  up  the 
little  village  street.  A  young  fisherman,  eating  his 
bread  and  cheese  on  the  beach,  jerked  his  thumb 
over  his  shoulder,  and  addressed  his  companion,  an 
older  man,  with  a  thin,  ragged  moustache. 

"Old  Willis  is  breaking  up,"  he  said.  " 'E's 
started  talking  to  'imself  I  That  means  'e's  started 
talking  moonshine." 

The  other  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I've  been  on  the  beach  fifteen  years,"  he  said, 
"and  I've  never  known  old  Willis  when  'e  weren't 
queer-like.  Nobody  knows  how  old  he  be — nor, 
for  that,  do  anyone  seem  to  know  him  any  better 
than  the  next  man." 

He  spat  contemplatively. 

"Always  been  the  same,"  he  added,  and  pulled  his 
hat  over  his  eyes. 

"Reckon  he's  just  an  old  fool,  then,"  rejoined 
Youth,  carelessly,  and  spat  ever  whit  as  efficiently 
as  his  Elder. 

239 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

It  is  a  commonplace  to  say  that  women  have  no 
sense  of  proportion.  That  is  only  to  affirm  that  they 
are  less  apt  to  be  calculating,  than  men.  A  sincere 
woman  considers  less  the  expediency  of  her  actions 
than  a  sincere  man.  She  looks  straight  at  her  prob- 
lem, in  the  light  in  which  it  would  appear,  were  it 
set  in  ideal  surroundings.  Women,  in  fact,  actually 
guide  their  lives  much  less  by  the  rules  of  things  as 
they  are,  as  by  their  own  private  ideas  as  to  what 
they  ought  to  be.  Hence,  the  generalization,  com- 
mon amongst  men,  that  all  women  are  idealists  to 
the  point  of  stupidity. 

The  entire  romance  of  Joan's  life,  which  she 
had  for  a  long  time  looked  upon  as  lost  (long  in- 
deed, before  such  an  idea  had  even  started  to  be  a 
disturbing  element  in  Peter's  existence)  had  come 
back  to  her.  The  immediate  result  of  her  own  hap- 
piness was  the  same  as  it  is,  in  the  case  of  most  hu- 
man animals — she  wanted  to  share  a  bit  of  it —  a  lit- 
tle bit  of  it,  with  someone  else.  Whether  this  emo- 
tion springs  from  the  old  Greek  idea  of  insurgnce 
against  the  wrath  of  the  gods  at  over-prosperity,  or 
whether  as  one  may  be  allowed  to  hope,  it  has  its 
origin  in  an  innate  kind-heartedness  within  everyone, 
is  a  question  each  must  settle  for,  himself,  according 

240 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

to  his  own  experience  of  human  motives.  The  fact 
remains,  that  it  is  the  most  ordinary  form  of  reac- 
tion, after  great  happiness,  and,  in  the  case  of  Joan, 
what  more  natural  than  that  her  mind  should  turn  to 
her  daughter,  beginning  the  very  experiment  which,  a 
very  short  time  hence,  had  seemed  to  the  mother  lit- 
tle but  a  chimera,  which  lived  faintly  on,  only  by  vir- 
tue of  its  original  enthusiasm?  She  had  spoken  to 
Emily  that  morning,  not  of  those  moments  with 
Peter  on  the  balcony,  for  those  were  sacred,  but  just 
to  tell  her  that  things  were  not  as  she  had  imagined. 
Emily  had  smiled  to  her  and  nodded.  "No,  dear," 
she  had  said,  and  had  added,  inexplicably,  "I  always 
thought  she  had  nice  eyes."  Confirming  to  herself, 
perhaps,  her  own  unreasonable  faith  in  things. 
Then  Joan  had  mentioned  Alison,  and  had  hinted  to 
Emily  that  the  engagement  of  their  children  was 
curiously  unlike  their  own.  Emily  had  admitted 
this,  a  puzzled  frown  upon  her  forehead.  But  the 
frown  had  disappeared  almost  immediately,  as  she 
answered,  "Charles  feels  that  too,  only  he  says  that 
they  are  both  very  modern,  and  will  grow  out  of 
it."  With  which  explanation  she  appeared  to  be 
perfectly  satisfied.  But  Joan  was  not  made  in  such 
a  way  that  she  could  lean  absolutely  upon  another. 
The  bald,  business-like  attitude  which  her  daughter 
had  taken  up  towards  her  engagement,  alarmed  her 
all  the  more,  now  that  she  had  found,  as  she  thought, 
justification  for  the  romanticism  of  her  own  wooing. 
They  arrived  back  at  the  hotel  some  three  quar- 

241 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

ters  of  an  hour  before  lunch  and  Alison,  who  had 
come  to  her  mother's  room  to  borrow  some  cold 
cream,  was  standing  before  the  glass  over  the  fire- 
place, patting  her  hair  into  shape  with  almost  mas- 
culine carelessness.  Joan  sat  in  the  armchair  look- 
ing at  her. 

"Alison,"  she  said,  suddenly,  "are  you  quite  cer- 
tain that  you  love  Harold?" 

The  girl  stiffened;  immediately  on  the  defensive. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  carelessly,  "Why?" 

"Only,  dear,"  answered  Joan,  "because  it  ... 
it  doesn't  look  like  it!" 

Alison  turned  slowly  away  from  the  glass,  and, 
avoiding  her  mother's  eye,  walked  across  to  the 
window.  Her  heart  was  beating  fast,  for  here  was 
the  beginning  of  the  fight  which  she  had  known  must 
come  sooner  or  later.  Well,  she  knew  the  methods 
she  had  always  meant  to  adopt  when  the  moment 
came.  Attack,  smashing — even  cruel,  if  necessary. 
She  was  young  and  she  believed  in  herself:  and,  if 
she  crushed  every  loving  relation  she  had  in  the 
world,  she  felt  that  she  was  right,  so  long  as  she 
kept  this  belief.  She  turned  and  faced  her  mother. 
"It  would  be  waste  of  time,  mother,"  she  said,  "to 
pretend  that  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  The 
great  thing  is,  don't  you  think,  that  I  should  be 
straight  with  you?" 

Joan  nodded. 

"Of  course,  dear,"  she  answered,  her  brain  fight- 
ing hard  against  her  heart,  which  was  shouting  to 

242 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

her  that  it  was  going  to  be  a  terrible  thing  for  a 
daughter  to  be  "straight"  with  her  mother. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Alison,  "in  the  first  place  I 
don't  think  that  it  has  anything  to  do  with  you  or 
with  Dad.  My  engagement  is  none  of  your  busi- 
ness!" 

That  was  a  good  clean,  smashing  blow  to  lead  off 
with,  and  Joan  felt  it  almost  physically,  as  if  Alison 
had  actually  hit  her.  But  she  was  brave,  and  she 
smiled  and  nodded.  Her  mind,  almost  against  her 
will,  was  telling  her  that  her  own  mother — that 
queer  old  woman  in  a  stiff  cap  who  seemed  now  to 
belong  to  another  age — had  been  very — very  dif- 
ficult about  her  engagement.  The  fashion  then,  of 
course,  had  been  to  treat  one's  parents  with  re- 
spect— but,  after  all,  she  had  been  every  bit  as 
determined  as  Alison.  Perhaps  it  came  to  the  same 
thing  in  the  end. 

"You  see,  mother,"  Alison  was  going  on,  "I  am 
young  and  so  is  Harold.  There  is  no  reason  what- 
ever why  we  should  handicap  our  lives  by  trying  to 
graft  the  ideas  of  old  people  upon  our  own." 

"I  am  not  so  very  old,  Alison,"  said  Joan,  quickly, 
like  a  fighter  who,  hard  pressed,  puts  his  hands  up 
quickly  to  shield  his  face. 

"You're  not  an  old  woman,"  returned  Alison, 
"but  when  you  talk  of  engagements,  you  are  talking 
of  the  engagements  which  happened  before  I  was 
born.  Naturally,  because  that  is  the  only  kind  of 
engagement  you  know.  But,  you  must  see,  that  you 

243 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

might  just  as  well,  from  my  point  of  view,  give  me 
a  lecture  on  the  marriage  customs  of  old  Babylon." 

The  mother  managed  another  smile.  She  must 
not,  she  told  herself,  take  this  second  blow  too  seri- 
ously. She  supposed  things  looked  like  that  to  the 
young. 

"After  all,"  Alison  was  saying,  "it  may  be  as 
well  for  us  to  understand  one  another.  First  of  all, 
mother,  though  of  course  I'm  fond  of  you  and  Dad, 
I  don't  feel  I  owe  anything  to  any  relation  I  have  in 
the  world.  A  debt  which  can  never  be  paid  till  the 
creditors  are  dead,  is  an  absurdity.  If  there  is  one 
distinguishing  feature  about  the  present  generation, 
It  is  a  refusal  to  subscribe  to  absurdities.  That  is 
why  I  say  that  my  marriage  is  nothing  to  do  with 
any  of  you.  If  you  like  to  go  on  being  friends  with 
me,  after  I'm  married,  it  will  be  splendid.  But,  if 
there's  any  sort  of  silly  trouble,  I'm  not  going  to 
bother  with  it.  Why  should  we,  Harold  and  I? 
We're  trying  to  make  our  own  lives,  and  that's  dif- 
ficult enough  in  itself,  without  the  perpetual  brake 
on  the  machine,  caused  by  relations  who  have,  as  a 
rule,  failed  to  make  anything  of  their  own.  If  I 
and  Harold  hurt  anyone's  feelings,  in  the  course  of 
working  out  our  own  salvation,  it's  a  pity,  but  it 
will  have  to  be.  What's  more,  we  are  sound  enough 
to  expect  our  children — even  to  hope  that  our  chil- 
dren will  do  the  same  with  us!" 

Joan,  reeling  under  the  torrent  of  words,  saw  an 
opening,  and  hit  back. 

244 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS! 

"You've  not  had  a  child,  yet,  Alison  1" 

"If  part  of  the  disabilities  of  having  a  child," 
answered  her  daughter,  "is  that  one  loses  the  sense 
that  one's  duty  is  to  let  it  alone,  to  prevent  it  being 
clogged  by  other  people's  sentiments,  other  people's 
religions,  other  people's  prejudices — then  I  can  only 
hope  that  I  shall  always  be  sterile  I" 

The  very  words  her  daughter  chose  to  use  seemed 
to  hurt  Joan.  But  still  she  managed  a  smile. 

"You're  giving  me  a  long  lecture,  Alison,"  she 
murmured.  "But  I  haven't  really  said  very  much, 
have  I?" 

"That's  just  hedging,  mother,"  returned  Alison, 
quickly,  "I  know  perfectly  well  that  you  don't  think 
there  is  the  usual  amount  of  sentiment  between 
Harold  and  me,  to  make  up  the  mixture  which  you 
have  been  taught  to  regard  as  love.  Well,  I  can 
only  repeat,  that  that  is  our  business  I" 

She  came  away  from  the  window  and  sat  upon 
the  edge  of  the  bed. 

"You,  and  your  generation,  mother,"  she  went 
on,  "tried  the  other  way.  Your  engagements  be- 
came conspiracies  amongst  your  friends  to  produce 
an  Arabian  Nights  atmosphere  of  romance.  I  dare- 
say it's  a  very  pleasant  form  of  opiate.  Perhaps 
it's  worth  the  disillusionment.  I  don't  know;  and 
I  never  shall  know,  because  I  never  propose  to 
try  it  I" 

"Disillusionment?"  Joan's  laugh  was  unnatural, 
fpjT  $he  could  not  help  realizing  that  there  had  in- 

245 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

deed  been  disillusionment,  only  last  night  magically 
dispelled.  Still,  she  managed  to  smile  again,  as 
she  added. 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean,  Alison?" 

The  girl  rose  and  came  and  stood  before  her 
mother.  She  looked  down  at  her  fixedly  with  her 
clear,  honest  grey  eyes. 

"Look  here,  mother,"  she  said,  "you  don't  think 
children  are  blind,  do  you?  We  don't  talk  about 
all  we  see,  for  the  same  reason  as  we  don't  expect 
you  to  interfere  with  us,  because  it's  none  of  our 
business.  But  of  course,  we  do  see.  Harold  and  I 
have  realized  for  some  time  what  has  been  hap- 
pening to  our  fathers,  and  have  wondered  how  it 
was  going  to  turn  out!" 

Joan  stood  up,  suddenly,  her  eyes  bright  with 
anger,  even  though  she  recalled  Loveday's  mention 
of  this  possibility. 

"How  dare  you,  Alison?"  she  said. 

The  girl's  eyes  never  faltered. 

"I  had  just  as  much  right  to  say  that  to  you, 
mother,"  she  answered,  "as  you  had,  to  talk  to  me 
about  my  engagement." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  returned  Joan,  coldly. 
"Your  ideas  are  very  peculiar."  She  turned  away 
towards  the  dressing-table,  struggling  against  the 
insistent  idea  that  Alison's  logic  was  disturbingly 
correct. 

"To  you,  mother,"  answered  her  daughter,  "my 
ideas  are  naturally  peculiar.  I  expect  the  ideas  of 

246 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

the  man  who  first  thought  of  an  iron  ship  were  con- 
sidered peculiar,  by  his  mother."  Joan  answered 
nothing.  She  stood  at  the  dressing-table,  her  back 
to  her  daughter,  her  fingers  tapping  upon  the  linen 
cloth.  Alison's  voice  came  to  her  again  in  a  gentler 
tone. 

"It'.s  not  that  I  don't  love  you,  mother.  But,  one 
must  separate  love  from  any  kind  of  slavery." 

Joan  turned. 

"Do  you  think  you  can  separate  love,"  she  said, 
"from  some  sort  of  slavery?  You  will  be  very 
clever,  if  you  do.  Ah,  Alison,  you  talk  a  great  deal, 
dear  girl,  but  you've  not  had  to  do  much,  or  to  give 
much,  yet!" 

For  some  reason  these  words  angered  Alison. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  she  flashed  back,  "you  think  that  I'm 
just  talking:  that  I  wouldn't  back  up  my  words  by 
my  deeds?  Then  let  me  tell  you,  mother,  that  I 
would,  that  I  have  I  Harold  and  I  became  engaged 
in  Testleigh  Woods,  that  night — that  was  where 
we  knew  we  loved  each  other  and  knew,  too,  that 
when  we  came  home,  there  were  going  to  be  lots  of 
people  who  were  going  to  knock  the  cleanness  and 
the  brightness  off  our  love,  by  silly  conventions  and 
foolish  talk.  And  so,  mother,  because  I  wanted  him 
to  know  that  my  love  was  much  more  real  than  any 
church  could  make  it,  I  offered  myself  to  Harold, 
that  night,  in  the  wood,  before  anyone  knew,  except 
our  two  selves !" 

She  stopped,  breathless.    She  had  said  more  than 

247 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

she  had  ever  meant  to  say.  But  she  was  not  in  the 
least  ashamed  of  the  adventure  in  the  wood — rather 
the  opposite — and  she  tossed  her  head  proudly. 
Her  mother  turned  slowly  towards  the  chair,  so 
slowly  that  the  movement  appeared  unnatural.  Her 
hand  seemed  to  go  out  towards  its  arm,  blindly 
fluttered  for  a  moment,  then  found  it.  Joan  sank 
slowly  into  the  chair.  She  did  not  dare  ask  whether 
Harold  had  accepted  that  offer  in  the  woods. 
Vaguely  she  felt  that,  somehow  or  other,  she  must 
keep  her  daughter's  confidence,  must  try  to  appear 
at  least  as  if  she  understood  these  new  ways.  She 
was,  at  the  moment,  only  anxious  that  Alison  should 
not  start  justifying  what  had  happened,  with  that 
terrible  flow  of  biting  words.  She  managed  a  smile 
and  a  little  nod. 

"I  see,  Alison,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "I  see 
your  point  of  view." 

Alison  crossed  and  kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 
She  knew  that  she  had  hurt  her  mother,  but  she 
still  thought  that  it  was  the  only  thing  to  do.  But 
Joan  hardly  felt  it.  She  heard  the  gong  for  lunch 
booming  below  and  saw  the  outline  of  Alison's 
strong,  obstinate  head,  as  she  slipped  from  the 
room. 

Still  she  sat  in  the  chair.  From  the  very  first 
moment  of  the  fight,  Alison  had  started  hitting  her. 
She  had  been  virtually  beaten,  half-way  through. 
But  not  beaten  sufficiently  to  satisfy  Alison.  There 
had  remained  the  knock-out,  and  she  had  taken  it. 

248 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

She  sat  limp,  in  the  chair,  till  her  brain  began  to  tell 
her  that  her  absence  from  lunch  would  be  remarked 
upon. 

Then  she  dragged  herself  slowly  to  her 
feet.  ...  It  was  at  that  moment  that  the  door 
opened  and  Peter  came  in,  childishly  agog  to  tell  of 
the  adventure  with  the  shark.  He  had  the  same 
dazzling  smile  upon  his  face,  which  she  had  seen 
that  morning,  for  the  first  time,  after  twenty  odd 
years.  The  smile  cheered  her,  enthused  her  again, 
much  like  the  sponge  and  the  towel  of  the  second 
in  the  corner  of  the  ring.  But,  as  she  went  to  meet 
him,  she  felt  her  legs  trembling  and  giving  way  be- 
neath her,  just  as  if  she  had  really  and  physically 
received  that  knock-out  blow.  The  next  thing  she 
knew  was  that  she  was  in  his  arms,  that  his  right 
hand  lay  upon  her  head,  and  that,  between  tears, 
which  she  was  trying  hard  to  restrain,  she  caught  a 
glimpse  of  his  terribly  large  Victorian  watch-chain. 

"Your  grandfather's  watch-chain  I  Your  grand- 
father's watch-chain  1"  she  sobbed  hysterically: 
"She  would  call  it  the  key  to  the  whole  business !" 
After  which  she  found  herself  laughing,  and  won- 
dering why  the  sound  of  the  laugh  was  all  wrong. 
Then,  after  a  long  interval,  as  it  seemed,  she  was 
on  the  bed,  with  a  handkerchief,  soaked  in  eau-de- 
cologne  round  her  forehead.  The  voice  of  Peter 
§eemcd  to  come  from  a  long  way  off.  It  sounded 
yery  firm  and  kind  and  comforting. 

"No,  dear,"  it  said,  "you  will  not  go  down  to 

249 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

lunch."  Then  she  must  have  been  talking,  she 
thought  dimly — and  with  a  quite  vague  feeling  of 
terror,  wondered  how  much  she  had  been  talk- 
ing. .  .  . 

His  next  words  were  reassuring. 

"It  is  the  heat,"  he  said.  "That  bit  of  beach  at 
the  bathing  hole  is  an  absolute  suntrap." 

He  fussed  away  to  the  dressing-table,  replacing 
the  stopper  in  the  scent-bottle,  and  aimlessly  straight- 
ening brushes  and  trinket-boxes.  Joan  could  not 
help  a  little  smile,  despite  the  turmoil  of  her  mind. 
Dear,  dear  Peter!  He  was  so  obviously  enjoying 
his  effort  to  be  of  use.  Oh  yes,  he  was  the  old 
"baby  Peter,"  all  right! 

Then  the  thought  came  into  her  head,  that  she 
must  certainly  go  down  to  lunch.  She  had  a  quick 
vision  of  Peter,  telling  the  assembled  company  that 
she  had  been  overcome  with  the  heat:  another  flash 
showed  her  Alison,  with  the  beginning  of  a  smile 
upon  her  lips.  And  now,  frankly,  she  did  not  care 
whether  Alison's  theories  were  right  or  wrong.  She 
only  felt,  and  felt  strongly,  that  she  had  beliefs  of 
her  own,  standards  of  her  own,  all  of  which  were 
just  as  important  as  those  of  Alison. 

She  must  certainly  go  down  to  lunch !  The  idea 
of  surrender  was  still  intolerable  to  her,  even  after 
that  last  terrible  blow.  Moreover,  Peter  must  not 
know  anything  of  Alison's  amazing  confession. 
Confession?  no,  it  had  sounded  more  like  a  slogan. 
Her  mind  raced  away  with  her,  at  top-speed.  She 

250 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

imagined  whole  life-times,  as  Peter  fussed  at  the 
dressing  table.  Supposing  there  was  a  child — a 
child,  who  had  already  started  life;  a  child  of  that 
madness  in  the  wood?  Her  brain  buzzed  round 
dates  and  calculations.  It  might  be  possible,  she 
thought,  to  fake  things  .  .  .  with  luck.  But 
of  course,  some  people  would  talk — women  would 
talk.  That  would  be  awful:  and  still  more  awful, 
the  few  who  would  deliberately  not  talk — Loveday 
Weare,  for  instance.  Joan  actually  shuddered  as 
she  thought  what  the  silence  of  Loveday  would  feel 
like.  .  .  . 

Then  her  mind,  like  a  ball  thrown  from  a  great 
height,  seemed  to  leap  back  again,  not  quite  to 
where  it  had  started,  but  to  a  point  not  far  below. 

After  all,  this  hypothical  child  ...  it  would 
be  a  real  baby  ...  a  little  girl  or  a  little  boy. 

If  now,  it  had  started  it's  being,  what  right  had 
she  to  begin  to  load  it  already,  with  her  own  preju- 
dices? No.  No.  If  there  was  anything  criminal 
in  the  affair  that  would  be  it.  The  child,  of  course, 
must  be  regarded  as  just  a  child. 

Above  all,  Peter  must  know  nothing  about  it. 
There  he  was,  smiling  at  her  over  the  end  of  the 
bed  .  .  .  dear  old  Peter ! 

And  perhaps — probably,  even — there  was  no 
child. 

Fearfully  illogical,  that  this  probability  took  the 
whole  affair  onto  a  plane  of  far  less  importance — 
but  it  did !  Joan  could  not,  at  that  moment,  pursue 

251 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

the  ethics  of  her  emotions.  The  great  thing  was 
that  dear,  violent  Peter  should  guess  nothing. 

She  smiled  to  him  and  saw  his  eyes  twinkle. 

"Better,  eh?"  he  said  "I  thought  that  bandage 
would  do  trick  I" 

She  smiled  to  him  again  and  he  came  to  her  and 
slipped  an  arm  round  her  shoulders.  It  was  nice 
to  feel  Peter  so  loving  .  .  .  but  she  was 
glad,  for  all  that,  that  the  language  of  smiles  is 
not  easily  read.  For,  though  it  was  actually  the 
very  thing  which  was  wanted  at  the  moment,  her 
smile  had  come,  simply  because  Peter  was  really 
rather  a  darling,  standing  there  at  the  end  of  the 
bed,  thinking  he  had  been  efficient  with  his  bandage. 

She  roused  herself  quickly  and  squeezed  his  hand. 

"Dearest  old  fuss-pot  Peter!"  she  said,  and  slid 
to  her  feet,  off  the  bed. 

"Of  course,  I  shall  come  down  to  lunch!"  she 
added,  and  started  to  repair  ravages  at  the  glass. 


252 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Lunch  proceeded  as  if  nothing  had  happened  at 
all.  Certainly,  there  was  no  hint  in  the  behaviour 
of  Joan,  that  twenty  minutes  ago,  her  own  daughter 
had  outraged  convictions  which  had  become  almost 
part  of  herself.  If  anyone  appeared  a  little  on 
edge,  it  was  Alison,  who  felt  a  curious  disinclination 
to  catch  her  mother's  eye.  But  Joan,  apparently, 
made  nothing  of  it,  and  fell  in  with  a  suggestion  that 
they  should  take  their  tea  to  the  top  of  the  white 
cliff,  with  the  mild  enthusiasm  which  she  always 
displayed,  on  these  occasions. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  was  suffering  intensely, 
more  intensely,  perhaps,  than  she  had  ever  suffered 
since  the  long  labour,  mental  and  physical,  which 
had  heralded  Alison's  appearance  in  the  world. 
But  Joan,  as  has  been  said,  had,  by  reason  of  an 
early  discovery  that  she  was  apt  to  any  disturbing 
things,  schooled  herself  to  suppression  for  many 
years,  and  now  this  discipline  stood  her  in  good 
stead.  Moreover,  she  recalled  a  remark  of  Lox- 
bury's,  made  at  the  inception  of  that  very  picnic,  the 
end  of  which  had  found  her  daughter  and  Harold 
Cutman  in  the,  to  her,  accursed  wood. 

"Shock  tactics!"  he  had  said,  in  his  lazy  drawl. 
"It  is  the  method  of  the  younger.generation  I"  The 

253 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

remark  had  been  occasioned  by  the  eager  insistence 
of  the  young  people  upon  the  undertaking  of  the 
expedition;  but,  as  Joan  recalled  it,  the  idea  seemed 
to  her  to  have  a  deeper  significance,  to  be  a  truism 
that  covered  a  greater  field  than  the  bachelor  had 
ever  imagined.  And,  besides,  she  felt  that  the  big- 
gest necessity  of  all  was  to  keep  this  secret  to  her- 
self. For  this  reason,  therefore,  it  was  her  business 
to  smile — and  so  Joan  smiled. 

Charles  and  Peter  decided  to  play  a  round  of 
golf,  while  the  bachelor  and  Owen  Weare,  who  had 
taken  their  exercise  in  the  morning,  elected  to  join 
the  party  for  the  cliff. 

"And  I  warn  you  two  lads,"  said  the  doctor,  in 
his  most  cheery  voice,  "that  the  heat,  playing  golf, 
is  killing!" 

"Must  have  one  more  round,"  answered  the 
Editor.  "Tomorrow,  we  all  go  back  to  our  respec- 
tive factories!" 

"It's  been  a  splendid  holiday,  anyway,"  said 
Emily,  "and  I'm  sure  we  all  look  much  the  better 
for  it." 

"Quite  apart  from  the  fact,"  added  the  Doctor 
with  a  courtly  little  bow  towards  Alison,  "that  two 
young  people  have  discovered  the  wonderful  treas- 
ure of  Romance!" 

And  then,  because  it  seemed  the  obvious  thing  to 
do,  everyone  smiled  and  drank  to  the  health  of 
Harold  and  Alison.  But  those  smiles!  If  only 
someone  could  have  read  them:  for  they  were  in- 

254 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

deed,  like  so  many  different  messages  in  code. 
Loveday  Weare's  smile,  her  sadly  cold  and  ironical 
blue  eyes  fixed  upon  the  genial  mask  of  the  doctor : 
Joan's  smile,  bravely  trampling  upon  doubt ;  a  smile 
which  was  almost  a  prayer  for  her  daughter's  hap- 
piness. Loxbury's  smile,  debonair,  courteous  and 
quite  worthless.  Charles  and  Peter  with  would-be 
parental  smiles,  but,  wondering,  privately,  whether 
this  discovery  of  Romance  had  been  attributed  to 
the  right  explorers.  Emily  alone,  perhaps,  wore  a 
smile  which  had  nothing  behind  it,  except  faith  and 
good-will. 

So  lunch  came  to  an  end  and  Charles  and  Peter 
found  themselves  on  the  way  to  the  links.  They 
played  a  few  holes  and  then,  mutually  agreeing  that 
it  was  too  hot,  even  for  golf,  sat  down  under  the 
shade  of  the  belt  of  woods. 

"She's  gone,"  said  Charles,  all  of  a  sudden.  "I 
asked  the  porter,  just  before  lunch." 

"So  did  I,"  returned  Peter.  "She  left  very  early, 
apparently." 

Charles  nodded. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "just  disappeared  into  thin  air,  as 
far  as  we  are  concerned.  Isn't  it  curious  to  have 
become  so  intimate  with  another  human  being  and 
not  even  to  know  her  name  and  address !" 

"I  am  not  sure,"  said  the  Editor  slowly,  "that  we 
should  ever  have  become  so  intimate  with  her,  if 
she  had  given  us  her  name  and  address." 

Charles  looked  at  him  sharply. 

255 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Look  here,  Peter,"  he  snapped,  "what  the  devil 
are  you  driving  at?  You  hinted  at  some  curious 
idea  on  the  beach,  too  I" 

Peter  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  gave  a  little 
shrug  of  the  shoulders.  He  answered  Charles' 
question  by  another. 

"Can  you  imagine  that  woman  telling  a  lie?"  he 
said. 

"No,"  pondered  Charles,  "I'm  not  sure  that  I 
can.  Why?" 

"Because,  Charles,  as  I  told  you,  she  said  that 
she  did  not  exist,  and  besides  .  .  ." 

He  broke  off,  seeing  all  over  again  the  miracle 
that  had  been  done  for  his  sake. 

"Yes,  but  damn  it,  Peter    .    .    ." 

"Very  well,  if  she  does  exist,  Charles,  she  told 
a  lie  I" 

Cutman  swung  round  suddenly  towards  his  friend. 

"But,  good  heavens,  Peter!  you're  talking  abso- 
lute nonsense!  Even  if  she  did  say  that,  it's  just 
a  ...  a  figure  of  speech." 

"I  daresay,"  answered  the  Editor  in  a  tone  much 
more  humble  than  it  was  his  wont  to  use  in  argument. 
"It  is  quite  possible  that  I  am  talking  nonsense. 
One  can  only  speak  according  to  one's  own  con- 
victions." 

Charles'  voice  sounded  positively  awe-stricken,  as 
he  listened  to  this  suggestion  of  his  hard-headed 
friend. 

"You  don't  mean,  Peter,  that  you  think    .    .    ." 

256 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

The  other  moved,  with  a  little  gesture  of  irrita- 
tion. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  "what  I  think.  I  don't 
know  that  I  care  much.  She  has  given  me  something 
that  is  priceless,  Charles,  and  I  am  afraid  I  can't 
think  much  beyond  that." 

The  Barrister  nodded,  and  for  some  moments 
was  silent,  nervously  plucking  up  little  handfuls  of 
grass  and  throwing  them  at  his  shoes. 

"It's  an  amazing  idea,"  he  said,  at  last.  "I'm 
trying  to  see  it.  I  suppose  we  were  attracted  to  her 
by  the  very  qualities  we  had  forgotten  in  Joan  and 
Emily  .  .  .  she  would  represent  all  that  part  of 
them  which  had  got  hidden,  so  to  speak,  under  the 
years." 

Peter  nodded.  Charles  had  come  very  near  that 
explanation  of  herself  which  the  strange  lady  had 
given  to  him,  and  which  he  had,  at  first,  so  lightly 
dismissed. 

"Probably,  as  you  say,  Charles,"  he  returned,  "I 
am  talking  sheer  wild  nonsense — but  then  it  is  very 
nice  to  feel  again  the  inclination  to  believe  in  non- 
sense. That's  another  bit  of  what  she  has  given 
back  to  us.  And  yet  I  don't  know  ...  we  are 
rather  apt  to  use  'nonsense'  as  a  synonym  for  all  the 
things  we  don't  know.  The  more  I  think  about  her, 
the  more  I  can't  help  feeling  that  she  knew  a  won- 
derful amount  about  .  .  .  about  the  beginning 
of  things." 

Charles  nodded. 

257 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"But  why,"  he  asked,  "do  you  speak  of  her  as  if 
she  was  dead?'* 

"I  suppose,"  answered  the  other,  "because  I  am 
convinced  that  we  shall  not  see  her  again  in  this  life. 
Anyway,  not  just  that  'her.'  After  all,  that  is  all 
that  death  means  to  us."  He  paused  for  a  moment 
then  went  on  quickly,  like  a  man  who  has  made  up 
his  mind  to  say  something  which  his  instincts  tell 
him  he  should  keep  to  himself. 

"I  ...  I  think  she  knew,  Charles,"  he  began, 
shy  as  a  schoolboy.  "I  think  she  knew.  About  the 
way  we  all  start,  I  mean,  the  way  we  are  all  treas- 
ure seekers  in  the  beginning  .  .  .  pitched  into  life 
one  way  or  another,  but  all  convinced  that  there's 
hidden  treasure,  somewhere." 

"Yes,"  murmured  Charles,  "That's  true  enough; 
it  starts  when  we  are  children." 

"I  rather  think,"  said  the  editor,  "that  she  knew 
it  went  on  long  after  we  were  children :  and  I  think 
she  knew  where  that  treasure  was  I" 

Charles  had  fallen  beneath  the  spell  of  Peter's 
sincerity.  He  had  never  heard  the  editor  talk  so 
earnestly  before.  He  nodded,  eagerly,  and  even 
discovered,  with  a  shock,  that  his  hand  was  on 
Peter's  arm,  and  that  Peter,  the  unemotional,  had 
not  noticed  its  presence. 

The  editor  went  on,  as  if  to  himself. 

"Yes,  I  think  she  knew  where  it  was.  Not  in 
Emily  or  Joan,  Charles.  Not  in  you  or  me.  But  in 
Emily's  idea  of  you,  which  must,  so  to  speak,  be 
pulling  you  up  a  bit  higher  than  yourself,  all  the 

258 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

time.  And  your  idea  of  Emily  .  .  .  working  the 
same  way.  And  so  with  me,  and  Joan.  That's 
Romance,  Charles!  not  the  servant  girl,  who  mar- 
ries the  Marquis,  as  we  publish  it  in  our  serials,  but 
just  two  ordinary  mortals,  living  together,  and 
believing  in  one  another.  It's  that  capacity  in  us 
.  .  .  that  amazing  possibility  in  the  human 
animal — it's  that  which  she  knew — it's  that  which 
is  the  Undying  Thing  I" 

And  then,  as  suddenly  as  he  had  torn  the  veil 
from  his  naked,  grateful  soul,  the  curtain  of  Good 
Form  appeared  to  him,  menacing  in  its  insistence, 
and  he  crowded  back  into  the  zareba  of  his  private 
mind,  like  so  many  women  of  the  east,  all  the  chil- 
dren of  the  miracle,  which  had  broken  out  of  prison 
for  those  few  moments. 

But  Charles,  deep  in  his  own  thoughts,  did  not 
notice  the  sudden  shrinking  of  his  companion  back 
into  the  Peter  Margett  whom  the  world  knew. 

"And  yet,"  the  barrister  murmured,  "very  little 
really  happened;  not  nearly  enough,  one  would 
have  thought,  to  give  us  this  amazing  feeling 
of  ...  of  certainty!" 

"Nothing  happened,  Charles,"  came  the  answer. 
"That  is  the  whole  point.  You  don't  think  that  any 
human  woman,  just  talking,  could  have  put  back  into 
you  and  me,  all  that  .  .  .  well,  all  that  practically 
makes  us  light-hearted  when  we  think  about  it?  It  is 
just  that  which  convinces  me  that  when  she  said  she 
was  nothing,  she  spoke  the  literal  truth!" 

259 


WHERE, YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Nothing?"  echoed  Charles,  his  chin  sunk  in  his 
hands. 

"Nothing,  as  far  as  human  intelligence  is  con- 
cerned. Damn  it,  Charles,  think  of  the  number  of 
things  that  influence  our  lives — ideals,  thoughts  and 
convictions  which  come  from  nowhere;  prejudices 
which  you  couldn't  trace  to  any  source  in  a  hundred 
years.  Those  are  the  things  which  sway  us — which 
make  up  what  we  call  our  personalities.  If  you  want 
to  try  them,  by  the  test  of  touch  and  sight— or 
name  and  address — you're  done!  But,  there  they 
are  all  the  time — nothing,  but  everything  I" 

"Yet,"  answered  the  barrister,  slowly,  "we  did 
see  her  and  we  did  touch  her." 

"We  believe  we  did.  She  knew  that  we  were  suf- 
ficiently gross  to  make  that  belief  necesary  for  our 
conviction." 

"You  seriously  mean,  Peter,  that  you  don't  think 
that  woman  is  anywhere  now,  at  all?" 

"Anywhere?  Well,  no.  Not  anywhere  within 
what  you  would  call  the  meaning  of  the  act." 

And  then  Peter  Margett  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
helplessly. 

"I've  told  you,"  he  said,  "that  I  don't  know  what 
I  think.  The  thing  is,  that  something  came  out  of 
her  being  .  .  .  her  entity — something  quite 
apart  from  anything  she  said.  That  something  has 
been  given  to  us.  I  don't  care  where  it  came  from : 
I've  never  believed  in  God,  Charles,  not  the  matins 
and  evensong  God — but  I  do  know  that  there  are 

260 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

God-like  emotions  and  God-like  ideas  which  can  be 
the  property  of  men — I  know  it  now,  anyway !" 

He  rose  and  picked  up  his  bag  of  clubs. 

"Come  on,"  he  said,  "let's  carry  the  pit  and  re- 
gain our  faith  in  our  muscles.  I  hate  giving  myself 
away.  Reserve  is  one  of  the  tenets  of  my  gospel  of 
strength.  I  wonder  what  strength  really  is  I" 

He  strode  off  to  the  tee  and  Charles  followed. 

Queer  mixture,  old  Peter.  Now,  who  would  ever 
have  imagined  .  .  .  and,  yet,  wasn't  it  just  pos- 
sible that  he  was  right?  Only,  if  so,  well  .  .  .!" 

Charles  banged  his  ball  three  yards,  to  the  lip  of 
the  pit.  It  began  to  bump  slowly  down  to  the  bot- 
tom. He  disappeared  after  it,  cursing  happily. 


261 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Trunks,  suit-cases,  and  packages  were  being 
loaded  up  on  the  crazy  eminence  of  the  station 
omnibus.  Everything  had  been  counted  four  times 
by  Emily;  on  each  occasion  the  result  had  been  dif- 
ferent and  she  was  now  starting  all  over  again. 
Mrs.  Honeycott,  standing  at  the  top  of  the  steps, 
had  twice  sent  the  porter  round  every  bedroom,  to 
discover  whether  anything  had  been  left  behind. 
Charles,  who  had  never,  in  Emily's  eyes,  grown  old 
enough  to  be  trusted  with  a  return  ticket,  had  several 
times  taken  them  from  his  waistcoat-pocket  to 
assure  her  that  they  were  really  there,  and  had,  at 
last,  handed  them  over  to  Harold,  a  procedure 
which,  for  some  reason  or  other,  had  the  effect  of 
comforting  Emily  completely,  so  far  as  they  were 
concerned.  Loveday,  meanwhile,  sat  patiently 
inside  the  omnibus,  her  two  aquamarines  gazing 
steadily,  as  it  appeared,  upon  nothing.  The  Doctor 
was  up  and  down  the  steps,  in  and  out  of  the  little 
hall,  everywhere  at  once,  pretending  to  help. 
Alison  had  been  assuring  Emily  every  five  minutes 
that  there  had  been  no  mistakes  made,  but  now  she 
had  given  it  up  and  was  whispering  to  Harold,  "I 
believe  she  enjoys  it!"  To  which  Harold,  remem- 
bering countless  fusses  of  his  youth,  nodded  in  the 

262 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

affirmative.  It  was  the  end  of  the  holidays;  just 
such  an  end  of  the  holidays  as  had  happened  now 
for  twenty-six  years.  Just  such  an  end,  with  a  dif- 
ference. Charles  and  Peter  stood  some  fifty  yards 
below  the  omnibus,  on  the  very  edge,  in  fact,  of  the 
big  stones  at  the  top  of  the  beach.  They  did  not 
speak.  Apparently,  they  were  just  looking  at  the 
sea. 

Then,  tramping  slowly  up  the  incline  of  the 
beach,  an  old  man  approached  them,  a  string  of 
fish  hanging  from  his  right  hand. 

"Then  it's  good-bye,  Mr.  Cutman  and  Mr.  Mar- 
gett,  until  next  year?" 

"Afraid  so,  Willis,"  returned  Charles.  "We're 
feeling  all  the  better  for  the  holiday,  anyhow." 

"Ye  look  it,"  returned  the  old  man,  shortly,  and 
smiled  apparently  for  no  reason  at  all. 

"What's  the  joke,  Willis?"  asked  the  editor. 

"No  joke,  sir,  at  all,"  replied  the  fisherman.  "I 
was  only  remembering  something  that  I  told  Mr. 
Cutman  and  which  he  did  not  believe." 

"What  was  that?"  asked  Charles. 

"That  miracles,  sir,  are  very  apt  to  happen  when 
most  you  need  'em." 

There  was  a  silence,  and  then  Charles'  voice 
broke  it  suddenly. 

"Are  you  a  wizard,  Willis,  or  what  are  you  ?" 

At  that,  the  old  man  could  not  resist  the  theatrical 
sweep  of  his  battered  hat  from  his  white  head,  and 
the  courteous,  semi-ironical  bow  which  he  knew  so 
well  how  to  execute. 

263 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"I'm  just  an  old  man,  sir,"  he  answered.  "But, 
because  I'm  a  bit  lonely,  perhaps,  and  because  I've 
made  a  mort  of  mistakes,  I'm  not  sure  the  gods 
haven't  let  me  in  to  one  or  two  secrets." 

"Look  here,  Willis,"  began  Peter,  having  made 
up  his  mind  that  this  was  an  occasion  for  dignity, 
"I  think  you  ought  to  know  that,  in  my  opinion, 
your  comments  .  .  ."  And  then  he  stopped,  dis- 
covering that  he  had  not  really  formed  any  idea  as 
to  what  Ted  Willis  "ought  to  know." 

Charles  was  a  little  embarrassed,  more  perhaps 
at  his  friend's  attempt  at  grandeur  than  by  anything 
the  old  fisherman  had  said.  He  held  out  his  hand 
shyly. 

"Well,  au  revoir,  Willis,"  he  said,  and  was  thank- 
ful for  the  anxiously  shrill  voice  of  Emily,  calling 
him  to  the  omnibus. 

Some  excited  squeaks  on  the  steps  of  the  carnage. 
A  slamming  door.  Mrs.  Honeycott  waving  a  hand- 
kerchief. Ted  Willis's  brown  hand  in  the  air.  The 
infernally  bumpy  surface  of  the  station  road.  The 
train — seeming,  to  Londoners,  amazingly  short  and 
queerly  old-fashioned.  The  red-haired  guard,  who 
is  apparently  immortal.  Labels  .  .  .  corner 
seats  ...  an  attenuated  whistle,  and  that  fear- 
ful, amateur  jerk  with  which  the  engine-driver 
always  started.  Then  the  slow  passing  of  the  river 
running  under  the  bridge  which  led  to  the  golf- 
links  .  .  .  the  dark  little  patch  on  the  road-side 
which  was  the  opening  of  the  lane  that  ran  up  to  the 

264 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

club-house.  The  links  I  The  club-house  !  No  won- 
der Peter  and  Charles,  looking  out  of  the  window, 
were  silent.  It  was  up  there,  on  that  great  green 
hill-side,  that  something  —  something  had  come  to 
them,  and  made  the  rest  of  their  lives  seem  worth 
the  living.  As  the  silent  sleepy  cliff  slid  away  behind 
the  train,  it  seemed  almost  like  an  old  friend  setting 
out  upon  a  long  journey.  It  left  the  same  sad  im- 
pression. Even  after  the  change  at  the  junction, 
that  feeling  remained,  and  Charles  and  Peter  sat 
silently  occupied  with  their  own  thoughts  almost  all 
the  way  to  Waterloo,  —  magazines  and  papers  lying 
idle  by  their  sides.  One  thing  only,  they  knew, 
would  cure  this  melancholy;  the  moment  when  they 
were  alone  again  with  Joan  and  Emily.  They  were 
thinking,  perhaps,  of  the  road  along  which  that 
original  madness  might  have  led;  thanking  the  gods 
that  be  for  the  actual  outcome.  Dangerous  folly? 
Yes  —  but  'Coelum  ipsum  petimus  stultitia" 

There  is  many  a  madness  leading  to  salvation. 

Waterloo,  the  old  luggage,  the  old  cab,  the  old 
home,  the  old  problems  .  .  .  but  with  it  all,  a 
gay  new  feeling,  an  incredible  lightness  of  heart, 
even  when  the  pile  of  bills  and  correspondence  is 
picked  up  from  the  old  chest  in  the  hall. 


Emily,  four  months  later,  could  not  pretend,  even 
with  the  best  will  in  the  world,  that  her  son's  actual 

265 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

wedding  had  been  a  success.  To  her  mind,  it  must 
have  seemed  "very  odd"  to  the  various  relations  and 
friends  who  ought  to  have  been  invited,  but  who 
were  not.  Alison  had  insisted  upon  putting  the 
vrhole  business  through  with  as  great  expedition, 
and  as  little  ceremony,  as  possible.  Even  the 
organist  was  only  allowed  to  play  his  instrument 
once,  at  the  end  of  the  service,  and  he,  the  father 
of  nine  children,  with  a  sense  of  sentiment  in  pro- 
portion, was  quite  personally  hurt  that  no  one  had 
thought  it  worth  while  to  ask  for  any  particular 
music.  So  he  had  played  the  Wedding  March  with 
a  touch  that  was  almost  truculent.  The  whole 
affair,  according  to  Emily's  ideas,  was  over  "almost 
before  it  had  begun."  "You  might  have  thought," 
she  said,  afterwards,  to  Joan,  "that  Harold  and 
Alison  were  ashamed  of  it!" 

To  this  Joan  could  find  no  answer,  for  she  felt, 
at  least  as  far  as  Alison  was  concerned,  that  it  might 
very  well  be  the  truth. 

And,  indeed,  deep  down  in  herself,  the  bride's 
mother  was  not  so  sure  .  .  .  Alison  kneeling 
there  at  the  altar  steps,  while  the  clergyman  gave 
them  his  address,  and  somewhere  behind  the  im- 
mediate relations  the  quite  audible  sniffs  of  an  old 
servant  of  the  Cutmans',  to  whom  this  was  a  land- 
mark of  sentimental  orgy  standing  out,  as  in  red 
ink,  amongst  the  similar  pleasure  she  was  wont  to 
extract  from  churchyards,  on  her  "evenings  out." 

Joan  tried  to   remember  the   address   delivered 

266 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

over  her  own  bridal  head,  years  ago.  She  could 
not  recall  a  word  of  it.  Naturally,  she  had  been 
thinking  of  other  things — the  train  they  were  to 
catch  at  Paddington ;  that  troublesome  veil ;  the  pic- 
ture of  Peter  in  pyjamas  (wondering  whether 
pyjamas  would  make  any  difference  to  Peter!)  ;  the 
insistent  idea  that  she  had  somehow  cut  her  life 
in  half  at  this  point — and  a  vague,  but  very  real, 
sensation  of  fear.  ...  In  honesty,  that  was  all 
that  Joan  could  remember  of  her  own  wedding. 
There  were,  of  course,  other  kaleidoscopic  impres- 
sions still  remaining.  A  spinster  aunt  who  kept  on 
saying  that  something  or  other  was  "very  wonder- 
ful"— and  her  father  looking  very  hot  and  seeming 
strangely  relieved.  She  could  not  even  remember 
much  of  what  the  clergyman  had  said  to  her 
daughter  that  afternoon.  He  had,  she  recalled, 
made  a  reference  to  child-bearing  which,  outside  a 
church,  would  certainly  have  been  considered  in  the 
worst  possible  taste.  Yes,  she  was  forced  to  admit, 
that  in  a  perfectly  kind  and  fatherly  way,  he  had 
said  things  over  their  defenceless  heads  which  might 
well  cause  any  sensitive  pair  of  lovers  to  shun  the 
clergy  for  the  rest  of  their  days.  Not,  of  course, 
that  it  was  the  fault  of  the  Reverend  James  Far- 
quhar,  an  old  friend  of  her  husband's,  whom  they 
knew  to  be  a  great-hearted  old  gentleman,  with  all- 
embracing  sympathies.  But  his  profession  pledged 
him  to  mediaevalism :  and  the  manners  of  mediae- 
valism  are  apt  to  look  gross  in  these  days.  Yes,  to  a 

267 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

nature  like  Alison's  the  whole  affair  might  well  have 
appeared  impertinent.  It  was  quite  likely,  as  Emily 
had  hinted,  that  she  was  ashamed  of  it.  Anyway, 
it  was  over,  and  Harold  and  Alison  had  gone  to 
Paris  for  a  week.  Two  days  before  the  ceremony 
Joan  had  been  surprised  to  receive  a  visit  from 
Harold  just  before  the  dinner-hour.  He  had 
appeared,  almost  as  a  conspirator,  and  seemed  un- 
accountably nervous.  Her  mind,  never  quite  free 
from  dwelling  upon  her  daughter's  defiant  story  of 
the  evening  in  the  wood,  now  flew  back  to  it,  to  the 
exclusion  of  everything  else.  Here  was  the  boy, 
obviously  ashamed  of  what  he  wanted  to  tell  her! 
What  else  could  it  be,  then,  but  that.  .  .  .  And 
yet,  she  reflected  quickly,  there  would  be  no  confes- 
sion unless  such  a  thing  had  become  necessary,  and, 
in  that  case,  surely  the  embassy  would  not  come 
from  Harold! 

"Look  here!"  he  had  suddenly  perked  out,  "I've 
been  making  up  my  mind  to  tell  you  something  I 
thought  I  ought  to  tell  you  before  our  marriage, 
because  .  .  .  well,  because  afterwards  it 
wouldn't  be  quite  the  same  thing." 

She  had  nodded  encouragingly,  pitying  the  boy's 
wretchedness. 

"Alison  told  me,"  he  had  continued,  "what  she 
had  said  to  you  about  ...  er  .  .  .  about  the 
wood.  I  ...  I  couldn't  help  thinking  that  there 
might  be  some  mistake  ...  in  your  mind,  Mrs. 
Margett,  I  mean.  ...  So  I  just  want  to  give  you 
my  word  that — that  nothing  happened  in  the  wood 

268 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

at  all!"  After  which,  before  she  could  say  any- 
thing, he  had  burst  out,  loyally.  "Though  I  think 
it  was  wonderful,  splendid  of  her !" 

Joan  had  risen  then  and  taken  his  hand. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  she  had  answered 
simply.  "If  anything  could  have  made  me  better 
pleased  that  you  were  going  to  become  Alison's 
closest  friend,  it  would  be  this." 

"What?    That  nothing  happened  in  the  wood?" 

"No,"  she  replied.  "Just  that  you  thought  it 
right  to  come  and  comfort  the  imaginary  fears  of 
an  old  lady!" 

She  forgave  herself  the  "imaginary";  after  all, 
why  should  she  give  herself  away?  And  so  that 
incident  in  the  bolshevism  of  Alison  was  closed. 
For  Joan,  even  had  she  ever  wished  to,  was  now 
precluded  from  speaking  of  it,  out  of  loyalty  to 
Harold. 

And  now  they  were  married,  and  very  certain  of 
themselves,  and  there  was  a  house  being  taken  in 
Pembroke  Road  over  which  Charles  Cutman  was 
being  allowed  to  fuss,  as  regarded  the  terms  of  the 
lease,  and  Emily,  as  regarded  the  drains,  an  arrange- 
ment  which,  as  Joan  thought  privately,  had  prob- 
ably been  engineered  by  the  practical  Alison,  with 
the  deliberate  idea  that  "it  would  keep  Harold's 
people  happy."  Moreover,  it  did. 

The  worst  of  these  level-headed,  unromantic  folk 
is  that  they  are  so  often  right. 

Alison,  going  through  an  efficient  honeymoon  in 
Paris,  regarded  the  occupation  of  her  parents-in- 

269 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

law  as  a  stroke  of  policy  on  her  part,  calculated  to 
keep  them  out  of  mischief.  She  was  apt,  like  many 
modern  girls,  to  treat  children  as  if  they  were 
grown-up,  and  elders  as  if  they  were  children.  In 
Paris,  the  real  strength  of  Alison's  personality  was 
especially  in  evidence.  Harold,  whose  French  was 
poor,  was  embarrassed  at  his  disabilities.  Alison, 
who  knew  no  French  at  all,  forced  Frenchmen  who 
had  no  English  to  understand  that  language.  A 
triumph  of  sheer  brutality. 

On  the  second  day  of  the  honeymoon,  Alison 
walked  into  Harold's  dressing-room  and  told  him 
that  there  was  something  which  they  ought  to  dis- 
cuss immediately.  Harold,  in  his  dressing-gown, 
was  still  moved  by  the  thrill  of  a  council-of-war 
with  a  woman,  also  in  a  dressing-gown.  He  had,  in 
his  nature,  a  full  share  of  that  respect  for  the  idea 
of  woman  which  it  is  now  the  fashion  to  date  as  a 
foible  of  the  middle  of  the  last  century.  It  seemed 
still  to  Harold  a  great  compliment  that  a  woman 
should  come  so  near  to  him.  .  .  . 

The  nature  of  Alison's  problem  stunned  him,  at 
first.  Foolishly,  as  he  instantly  admitted  to  him- 
self, it  seemed  for  a  moment  to  disperse  that  de- 
sirable abyss  of  respect  which  lay  between  them. 

"I  think  we  ought  to  decide,  Harold,  dear,"  she 
said  calmly,  "whether  we  want  to  have  a  child  or 
not.  It  seems  to  me  rather  degrading  to  have  a 
child  by  mistake.  Especially  to  the  child." 

He  nodded.  In  a  way,  he  supposed  it  was.  It 
was  certainly  an  arguable  point  of  view.  On  the 

270 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

other  hand,  deliberation  seemed  to  make  the  baby, 
in  a  kind  of  way,  machine-made.  .  .  .  Surely 
there  was  something  to  be  said  for  the  divine  acci- 
dent. And,  rightly  or  wrongly,  it  was  a  discussion 
which  seemed  rather  wretched. 

Alison  went  into  ways  and  means  and  the  number 
of  servants  who  would  be  required  in  the  house  in 
Pembroke  Road,  if  a  nursery  was  to  be  waited  upon. 
Harold  agreed  with  her  that  it  could  just  be  done. 
But  he  could  not  help  feeling  that  they  had  missed 
the  glorious  thrill  of  discovering,  after  the  event, 
that  it  could  just  be  done.  <• 

"And,  of  course,"  said  Alison,  "I  should  like  a 
child.  Would  you?" 

"Of  course,"  answered  Harold.  There  was 
something  in  his  wife's  tone  which  made  the  poten- 
tial baby  appear  part  of  the  routine  of  an  efficient 
married  woman.  The  wood  seemed  a  great  dis- 
tance away.  Had  it  simply  been  what  Peter  Mar- 
gett  would  have  called  propaganda?  A  proclama- 
tion of  independence,  a  throwing  down  of  the 
gauntlet  on  behalf  of  modernity?  "No,  no,"  he 
told  himself;  "there  had  been  passion  In  those 
kisses."  There  was  passion  somewhere,  hidden 
beneath  the  fearful  efficiency  of  the  girl  who  sat 
opposite  to  him,  in  her  dressing-gown.  His  wife. 
His  wife !  The  word  whirled  him  away  from  mis- 
giving. He  had  only  been  used  to  it  for  two  days : 
he  kissed  her,  radiantly. 

Ten  weeks  later,  Alison  told  Joan  that  she  was 
likely  to  become  a  mother. 

271 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Joan  kissed  her,  and  smiled.  She  was  glad  that 
Alison  was  going  to  have  a  baby,  frankly  regarding 
its  advent  as  a  possible  medicine  for  her  daughter's 
disease. 

Emily,  on  the  other  hand,  hugged  her  daughter- 
in-law,  cried  a  little,  and  started  stitching  and  em- 
broidering, like  a  sweated  seamstress.  The  baby, 
as  it  happened,  gave  more  joy  to  her  than  he  was 
destined  to  give  to  anyone,  for,  on  a  raw  October 
morning,  after  several  hours  of  queer  noises,  which 
just  reached  Harold  as  he  paced  up  and  down  the 
room  below  (little  snatches  of  mad  song,  dying 
away  into  a  strange  helpless  drone,  and  erratic 
footsteps  of  people  who  might  be  doing  anything), 
there  came  a  long  silence.  Harold  stopped  walking 
up  and  down  and  stood  at  the  door.  He  hesitated 
to  go  out  of  the  room.  He  had  so  often,  during 
the  night,  been  asked  quite  kindly  to  remain  inside. 
He  heard  steps  coming  down  the  stairs,  and  a  mur- 
mur whicK  he  could  not  catch.  Then  Joan's  voice, 
on  a  low  note. 

"Ah." 

After  which  the  cool,  balanced  tone  of  the  nurse. 

"I  think  you  had  better  tell  her." 


472 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Is  she    .    .    .    ?" 

"Oh,  yes  .  .  .  just  coming  round.  Here  is 
Doctor  Vardon." 

Harold  heard  the  Doctor's  step  on  the  stairs. 
Then  another  murmur.  And  more  steps,  going  up. 
He  came  out  of  the  room  at  that,  and  saw  the  doctor 
and  the  nurse,  talking  in  the  hall.  Joan  had  evi- 
dently gone  up  to  the  bedroom.  As  he  came  for- 
ward, the  doctor  hurried  to  meet  him.  The  nurse 
seemed  to  vanish,  as  if  by  magic. 

The  older  man  took  his  arm  and  drew  him  back 
into  the  study. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  "Your  boy  was  born  dead. 
I  was  afraid  that  might  happen,  from  certain 
symptoms  last  night;  but  there  was  no  point  in 
alarming  you  .  .  .  when  there  was  a  chance  that 
it  might  be  needless.  Your  wife  is  perfectly  all 
right.  She'll  be  as  fit  as  a  fiddle  in  three  weeks." 
He  squeezed  Harold's  hand  sympathetically.  "I 
hate  bringing  news  like  this,"  he  said,  then  picked 
up  his  bag.  "You  would  rather  be  alone,  of  course." 

Harold  pulled  himself  together. 

"Rotten  luck!"  he  said,  huskily.  "You'll  have 
something  before  you  go,  Doctor?  A  whiskey-and- 
soda?" 

"Thanks,  no.  Better  have  one  yourself.  And 
don't  forget  to  eat  a  good  breakfast." 

He  was  gone.  A  decent  old  chap.  Harold 
gazed  up  the  stairs  towards  Alison's  room.  A  maid, 
who  had  heard  the  closing  of  the  front  door,  put 

273 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

her  head  timidly  round  the  top  of  the  basement 
stairs. 

"Excuse  me,  sir,"  she  stammered.  "Is  it  a  girl 
or  a  boy?" 

"Hush,"  answered  Harold,  without  quite  know- 
ing why,  and  added,  "he  is  dead." 

The  mere  fact  that  the  baby  could  no  longer  be 
referred  to  as  "it"  seemed  to  make  his  grief  more 
poignant  for  the  son  he  had  never  seen.  At  least 
the  child  had  now  become  'someone'.  He  turned 
back  towards  the  study,  his  hands  clasped  behind 
his  back. 

The  maid,  feeling  that  the  situation  was  beyond 
her  scanty  vocabulary,  disappeared.  He  sank  into 
his  armchair.  Poor  Alison !  .  .  .  poor  girl.  All 
those  rotten  months,  and  then  this ! 

He  stole  quietly  up  the  stairs,  pausing  for  a 
moment  outside  Alison's  room.  There  was  no 
sound.  He  went  on,  and  found  himself  upon  the 
landing  of  the  little  room  which  had  been  prepared 
as  a  nursery.  Some  perverse  idea  of  feeding  his 
distress  made  him  open  the  door  and  go  in.  There, 
in  the  corner,  was  the  bassinette,  with  those  silly 
ribbons  which  his  mother  had  so  loved  to  stitch  onto 
the  muslin  curtains:  and  inside,  the  coverlet — with 
a  *C'  embroidered  upon  it  by  Joan.  He  walked 
across  to  it.  Somehow  that  'C  made  the  whole 
thing  real  to  him,  over  again.  He  lifted  the  cover- 
let and  stood  suddenly  still,  shocked.  There  was 
something  beneath  it.  What  he  had  thought  were 
the  blankets,  were  not. 

274 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

So  that  was  where  they  had  laid  his  boy. 

A  levql,  kindly  voice,  from  the  doorway,  brought 
him  back  to  himself. 

"Now,  Mr.  Cutman,  it  won't  help  you  at  all  to 
be  up  here." 

He  turned  and  saw  the  nurse  standing  at  the  foot 
of  the  little  bed. 

"I  mayn't  see  my  wife  yet,"  he  answered.  "I 
would  like  to  see  my  boy." 

"You  can  see  Mrs.  Cutman  very  soon  now.  She 
will  make  a  splendid  recovery." 

"I  would  like  to  see  my  boy,"  he  said  doggedly. 

"Very  well.    And  then  you  will  go?" 

He  nodded.  She  turned  back  the  coverlet,  un- 
loosed a  safety  pin  with  deft  fingers  and  laid  back 
a  flannel  covering.  Then  she  crossed  to  the  window 
and  turned  her  back  upon  Harold.  He  looked  down 
upon  a  little  red,  withered  old  man.  It  seemed 
miraculous  that  so  small  a  thing  should  be  so  per- 
fect. His  son.  He  picked  up  one  of  the  little 
hands  and  kissed  it.  "Charlie,"  he  murmured,  and 
then  let  it  fall  and  drew  himself  up. 

"Ave  atque  vale,  little  chap,"  he  said,  and  turned 
away.  That  was  all  the  christening  and  all  the 
burial-service  his  boy  would  ever  need.  He  heard 
the  nurse  behind  him,  putting  things  in  order. 

"Thank  you,  Nurse,"  he  said,  over  his  shoulder. 

"Go  down  and  have  some  breakfast,  Mr.  Cut- 
man," she  answered. 

Well,  she  was  right.    It  was  weak  and  foolish  to 

275 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

make  oneself  unnecessarily  ill;  unable  to  deal  with 
things.    Alison  would  hate  that.    .    . 

He  went  slowly  down  to  the  dining-room. 


Alison,  drifting  slowly  out  of  the  fog  of  uncon- 
sciousness, found  her  mother  by  her  side. 

"Is  it  all  over?"  she  asked  in  a  thin  whisper. 

"Yes.    All  over,  dear." 

"Boy?" 

"Yes." 

Alison's  eyes  never  left  her  mother's  face. 

"Well,"  she  said,  all  of  a  sudden.     "Tell  me !" 

"He  was  born  dead,  dear  girl." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Alison  lay  quite  still, 
dry-eyed.  When  she  spoke,  her  words  came  as  a 
shock  to  Joan. 

"Whose  fault  was  it?"  she  asked. 

"Fault?    Why,  no  one's  fault." 

"Mine,  then,"  answered  her  daughter.  Whereat 
she  turned  her  face  to  the  wall,  her  left  hand  lying 
limp  in  her  mother's. 

For  some  minutes  Joan  sat  there  silently,  won- 
dering at  the  way  in  which  Alison  had  taken  the 
news.  Could  it  be  that  even  this  was  to  be  estimated 
by  the  test  of  efficiency,  like  everything  else?  She 
put  the  idea  from  her,  telling  herself  that,  under 
such  a  shock,  stranger  things  might  have  been 
expected. 

276 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Suddenly  Alison  spoke  again,  without  turning. 

"I'd  like  to  see  Harold,"  she  said. 

Joan  looked  a  question  to  the  nurse,  who  had 
just  come  in.  She  nodded  and  Joan  slipped  out  of 
the  room. 

When  Harold  came  in,  his  only  positive  emotion 
was  a  desire  to  be  of  some  use  to  his  wife.  He 
knew,  like  an  actor  in  some  unsuitable  part,  that 
the  situation  was  outside  the  measure  of  his  experi- 
ence. Still,  like  the  actor,  he  trusted  blindly  to 
instinct.  Whatever  he  must  do — he  believed  he  had 
the  capacity  for  "getting  it  over." 

The  white  mask  appearing  over  the  bed-clothes 
was  horribly  unlike  Alison. 

He  was  aware  of  a  moment  of  cowardly  inde- 
cision, in  the  doorway;  aware,  two  seconds  later,  of 
a  burning  longing  that  this  indecision  should  have 
passed,  unnoticed. 

Then  a  voice  in  his  ear  said,  "Five  minutes,  Mr. 
Cutman,"  and  a  kind  of  sensation  in  white  and 
butcher-blue  seemed  to  pass  him  by.  It  was  a  sen- 
sation which  he  remembered.  But  where  ?  He  re- 
called it  suddenly.  It  was  at  the  obsequies  of  his 
son. 

There  seemed  nothing  personal  about  this  woman. 
She  was  simply  an  impression  in  blue-and-white. 
Yet  she  had  forced  herself  indelibly  upon  the  canvas 
of  his  life.  Now,  he  heard  her  footsteps,  going 
upstairs. 

Evidently  his  son  still  demanded  service,  though 

277 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE   IS 

his  actual  life  could  be  measured  in  minutes.  Yet 
the  woman  demanded  service  too:  and  he  was 
ashamed  that  so  much  of  him  was  still  upstairs — in 
the  nursery.  When  he  approached  the  bed,  he  felt, 
perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  that  sense  of 
inevitable,  but  inexcusable,  brutality  which,  in  his 
relationship  with  women,  comes  to  every  sensitive 
man.  Yet,  even  as  he  looked  at  her,  he  realised,  in 
part,  that  he  was  deceiving  himself:  that  martyrdom, 
in  some  form  or  other,  was  a  necessity  for  a  woman. 
Still,  sentiment  triumphed.  He  felt  a  cad. 

He  took  her  hand  and  winced  to  find  it  so  cold. 
And  then,  again,  his  brain  took  charge,  and  he 
remembered  that  there  was  something  colder  up- 
stairs, in  the  bassinette;  and,  as  he  remembered,  he 
fought  desperately  against  the  idea  that,  in  himself 
also,  there  was  something  which  had  turned  icy-cold, 
in  sympathy. 

He  heard  Alison's  voice. 

"Funny,"  she  whispered.  "Little  boy.  Little 
woolen  suits.  Lots  of  self-will,  I  expect!  First 
little  spanks  1  Eton  collars — school  .  .  .  Oxford 
.  .  .  women,  and  the  woman  we'd  be  allowed  to 
know !  Their  children,  and  our  efforts  not  to  inter- 
fere !"  She  laughed  suddenly,  queerly. 

"I'm  a  little  light-headed,  Harold,"  she  said. 

He  patted  her  hand,  soothingly.  Yet  her  half- 
hysterical  sentences  seemed  to  him  like  a  precis  of 
everything  for  which  he  had  hoped  from  this  night's 
agony. 

278 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Rotten  luck,  darling,"  he  answered.  "But 
...  we  love  each  other  all  right;  that's  all  that 
really  matters." 

She  sighed. 

"Don't,  Harold,"  she  said.  "That's  what  your 
father  would  have  said  to  my  mother." 

For  a  moment  he  rebelled.  What  he  had  said 
was  commonplace,  and  he  knew  it.  But  there  is  a 
time  for  commonplace,  and  either  he  must  have  said 
something  of  the  kind,  or  nothing  at  all.  Yet  he 
could  not  fight  against  her  weakness:  he  could  not 
assert  himself  in  the  face  of  her  pain.  He  simply 
smiled;  cursing  himself  for  entertaining  even  a 
moment's  irritation,  at  such  a  time.  His  wife's  eyes 
were  closed,  but  she  was  speaking  again:  speaking 
vaguely,  in  queer  little  jerks.  .  .  . 

"Lived  seven  minutes,  they  say  .  .  .  my  fault, 
I  expect  ...  I  must  ask  the  doctor.  No  good 
getting  sentimental  or  tragic  about  it.  We  must 
stick  to  our  creed  .  .  .  the  only  one.  I  don't 
want  to  see  the  body!" 

Harold  made  no  answer.  For  some  seconds  .he 
sat  still,  wondering  vaguely  why  his  wife's  last  few 
words  had  sounded  like  some  horribly  offensive  dis- 
cord, played  in  his  ear.  Then  he  realised,  all  of  a 
sudden,  that  she  was  asleep.  The  impression  in  blue- 
and-white  was  somewhere  in  the  room  again.  He 
rose. 

"Asleep,  I  think,"  he  murmured. 

"Yes,  she's  dozing,"  answered  the  nurse,  and,  for 

279 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

some  reason  or  other,  he  found  her  at  his  elbow,  in 
the  doorway. 

"You  musn't  mind,"  she  whispered,  "anything 
your  wife  may  have  said,  Mr.  Cutman.  She's  had 
quite  a  lot  of  chloroform,  you  know." 

"Eh?  Oh,  no,  of  course  not!  Not  that  she 
.  .  .  but,  thanks.  Of  course  not!"  And  so  he 
escaped. 

Splendid  nurse,  that!  Anticipated  everything. 
Always  trying  to  be  kind,  too !  Not  that  she  under- 
stood, of  course,  but  still,  she  wanted  to  be  kind! 

Anyway,  it  meant  that  Alison  would  be  looked 
after. 

In  the  evening,  Harold  paid  another  visit  to  the 
bedroom.  The  nurse  opened  the  door  to  him,  and 
smiled. 

"I  wouldn't  come  in,  Mr.  Cutman,"  she  said. 
"She  is  fast  asleep  and  quite  comfortable.  Take  my 
advice,  and  get  a  good  night's  rest  yourself." 

He  went  to  his  room  and  started  to  undress. 

As  he  was  getting  into  bed,  he  found  himself 
repeating  over  and  over  again,  "You  musn't  mind 
.  .  .  anything  she  may  have  said  .  .  ." 

"Chloroform,"  he  told  himself,  and  suddenly  be- 
came terrified  at  the  value  which  he  was  beginning 
to  set  upon  this  word. 


280 


CHAPTER  XX. 

He  got  over  the  startling  shock  of  those  ten 
minutes  at  the  bedside,  of  course.  In  twenty-four 
hours  that  word  "chloroform"  had  definitely 
obscured  the  horror  of  the  words,  as  it  did  physical 
pain,  and,  in  a  fortnight,  as  Alison  grew  stronger 
every  day,  and  as  the  relationship  between  the  two 
became  automatically  normal  again,  even  his  son 
began  to  appear  simply  as  a  possibility  which  had 
not  eventuated.  No  more  actually  real  than  a  brief 
which  had  been  expected,  but  which,  at  the  last 
moment,  had  been  given  to  someone  else.  So 
Charles  Cutman,  junior,  having  tasted  this  life  for 
seven  minutes  of  tortured  breath,  might  be  sup- 
posed to  have  left  not  the  ghost  of  a  footprint  where 
he  had  passed. 

Harold  and  Alison  resumed  their  normal,  un- 
eventfully happy  existence.  There  were  no  more 
children:  that  particular  angle  of  married  life  had 
been  bungled,  and  it  was  obviously  better  to  stick  to 
the  things  which  you  knew  you  could  do  well. 

And  there  were  many  things  which  Alison  could 
do  well.  She  could  keep  her  household  and  herself 
at  that  particular  pitch  of  well-being  which  was  ex- 
pected of  her  particular  niche  in  Society.  She  could 


281 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

deal  with  the  vagaries  of  difficult  servants.  She 
could  see  that  her  husband  was  comfortable,  that 
his  outward  life  experienced  no  knocks  or  jars,  other 
than  those  he  might,  or  might  not,  receive  in  his 
chambers  at  the  Inner  Temple.  So  all  was  well — 
just  as  well  as  the  dining-room  clock  which  was 
wound  up  every  Friday  night,  and  ticked  comfort- 
ably along  for  the  next  seven  days. 

Indeed,  the  clock  ticked  away  the  seconds  and  the 
minutes  and  the  hours  and  even  the  years,  and 
Harold  Cutman  and  Alison  never  stopped  to  wonder 
whether  they  had  really  achieved  happiness  or  not. 
The  meals  were  regular  and  there  were  no  quarrels ; 
and  the  Church  and  the  Law,  at  any  rate,  demand 
no1  higher  standard  from  marriage  than  this. 

Eight  years  after  the  wedding,  Charles  Cutman 
died.  He  came  back,  on  a  wet  evening,  from  his 
chambers,  and,  in  spite  of  Emily's  entreaties,  was 
too  lazy  to  take  off  his  boots.  In  the  semi-delirium 
which  supervened  towards  the  end  of  his  pneumonia, 
he  kept  on  repeating  that  the  last  eight  years  of  his 
life  had  been  the  most  wonderful  he  had  ever  known. 
When  he  was  actually  within  a  few  moments  of 
death,  Emily  was  holding  his  hand. 

"Going  now,"  he  gasped,  all  of  a  sudden,  and  she 
felt  his  fingers  grip  hers,  as  they  had  when  he  was  a 
young  man.  Then  he  closed  his  eyes  and  fought 
horribly  for  ten  seconds  more  of  breath. 

"Young  .  .  .  always  silly  .  .  .  He  won 
....  we  were  .  .  .  Different  ways  now,"  he 

282 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

coughed.  "Tell  them  .  .  .  laburnum  tree  right 
.  .  .  .  dead  right!" 

Then  his  whole  body  shivered  like  a  kicked  jelly- 
fish. She  thought  it  was  the  end,  but,  for  no  appar- 
ent reason,  his  voice  became  suddenly  normal  and 
clear. 

"Emily,"  he  said,  "y°u  arc  wonderful  .  .  . 
you  have  always  been  wonderful.  I  thank  God  for 
you." 

She  kissed  his  foul  damp  forehead  passionately; 
kissed  his  dry  lips — trying,  animal-like,  to  suck  back 
some  moisture  into  them  from  her  own.  His  hand 
clawed  wildly  into  the  air.  She  found  it,  realising 
in  a  flash  that  this  was  going  to  be  the  last  time  his 
fingers  would  close  round  hers.  They  clung  to  her 
hand  like  red-hot  talons.  Then,  slowly,  they  seemed 
to  grow  cold.  She  looked  at  his  face  on  the  pillow, 
thinking  that  he  had  gone.  But,  suddenly,  with  an 
unnatural  jerk,  his  head  came  up  and  he  smiled  hap- 
pily into  her  eyes;  his  parched  lips  twisted  and 
writhed. 

She  put  her  face  close  to  his,  for  she  knew  he  had 
something  else  to  say  before  he  left  her. 

"Golden  girl,"  he  whispered,  and  seemed  to  have 
exhausted  his  strength.  Then,  quickly,  all  in  a 
breath,  he  finished.  "See  you  later!"  he  said  loudly, 
and  fell  back.  The  bedclothes  quivered  and  then 
sagged.  There  was  a  queer  metallic  snap  from  the 
face  on  the  pillow.  The  jaw  dropped,  and  Charles 
Cutman's  face  became  a  hideous  mask.  But  "golden 

283 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

girl"  was  the  name  he  had  called  her  under  the 
laburnum-tree — as  it  seemed,  millions  of  years  ago. 
And  it  is  things  like  that  which  make  Death 
ridiculous. 

Later,  at  least,  it  was  the  personal  memory  of 
those  last  quick  confidences,  the  personal  certainty 
of  those  few  moments  of  absolute  happiness,  that 
made  the  black  coat  of  Harold  and  the  black  Paris 
model  of  Alison  seem  just  a  little  absurd,  just  a 
little  unnecessary,  even  to  the  conventional  Emily. 

Somehow,  after  the  passage  of  several  months, 
even,  she  did  not  feel  that  she  could  give  the  young 
people  that  last  message.  She  knew,  well  enough, 
all  that  was  meant  by  the  "laburnum  tree,"  but  she 
knew  also  that  the  gift  of  words,  the  right  words  to 
impart  such  priceless  knowledge  to  a  couple  of 
heretics  was  not  hers.  In  the  end,  after  hours  of 
torment,  thinking  herself  disloyal  to  her  dead  hus- 
band, she  never  told  them  at  all. 

And  she  was  right;  they  would  have  been  kind 
and  sympathetic,  but  nothing  more. 

Thus,  Charles  Cutman's  body  rotted  and  re- 
plenished the  earth,  in  the  little  Sussex  churchyard, 
where  the  accident  of  his  great-grandfather's  rector- 
ship had  ordained  that  all  the  Cutmans  should  be 
buried.  But  Charles  Cutman's  soul  continued  to 
keep  alive,  in  the  heart  of  an  old  woman,  an  un- 
quenchable fire  of  enthusiasm  for  life  and  love  and 
suffering,  up  to  the  day  when  she,  too,  with  great 
content,  surrendered,  without  question,  her  fat  old 

284 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

body  and  her  garrulous  old  mind,  and  slid  away, 
care-free,  into  whatever  might  lie  behind  the  gentle 
black  curtain  which  descended  upon  her  last  few 
moments. 

As  for  Harold  and  Alison,  the  years  slipped  com- 
fortably over  their  heads;  the  disappearance  of  a 
cook  or  the  discovery  of  a  housemaid's  dishonesty, 
being  the  only  kind  of  storm  which  ruffled  the 
placidity  of  their  existence.  Harold's  practice  grew 
bigger,  and  they  moved  from  Pembroke  Road  to  a 
pretty  little  house  in  Knightsbridge.  Alison,  even 
after  twenty  years,  did  not  appear  to  have  changed 
much.  At  one  period  she  had  threatened  to  grow 
stout,  but  she  immediately  discovered  the  right 
exercise  to  counteract  this  tendency  and  efficiently 
conquered  it.  Her  father  had  then  retired  and, 
finding  on  his  retirement  that  he  could  get  no  hap- 
piness in  the  surroundings  in  which  he  had  been  so 
accustomed  to  energise,  suddenly  left  England  with 
Joan  and  settled  in  Italy. 

Joan  acquiesced  in  this  retirement,  though,  in 
private,  she  regarded  it  as  a  mute  acknowledgment 
of  the  end  of  her  personal  existence.  There  was 
nothing  to  prevent  her  going,  and  the  realisation  of 
this  saddened  her.  In  the  old  struggling  days,  how 
thrilling  such  a  journey  would  have  been,  what  pic- 
tures every  trivial  foreign  incident  would  have  called 
up  to  her  vivid,  but  long-suppressed,  imagination. 
To-day  she- regarded  the  prospect  with  a  tinge  of 
bitterness ;  could  not  help  wondering  what  she  had 

285 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

actually  achieved,  now  that  she  was  within  measur- 
able distance  of  Death.  Alison,  certainly,  no  longer 
needed  her.  Indeed,  looking  back  through  the 
years,  even  to  nursery  days,  the  old  lady  began  to 
doubt  whether  Alison  had  ever  needed  her — whether 
indeed  Alison  had  ever  needed  anyone — even  her 
husband.  And,  to  Joan,  it  semed  a  very  tragic  busi- 
ness, a  terrible  waste  to  fake  the  semblance  of  a 
great  friendship,  when  there  was  no  actual  need  of 
that  friendship  at  all.  She  puzzled  over  it,  even 
tormented  herself  over  it.  ...  Thus  had  Emily, 
whose  mere  intelligence  was  so  much  less  acute  than 
Joan's,  had  the  advantage  of  her  all  the  time — dur- 
ing those  pregnant  days  at  Whyticombe  and  after 
the  dull  consummation  of  Harold's  marriage. 
Emily  realised  no  tragedy  or  comedy,  except  in  those 
situations  which  had  been  tacitly  and  conventionally 
labelled  as  such.  She  regarded  the  dead  child  as  a 
tragedy,  Harold's  story  of  an  illiterate  plumber,  at 
work  on  the  Pembroke  Road  kitchen  range,  as  a 
comedy.  Such  things  were  cut-and-dried,  in  her 
mind.  When  Alison  refused  to  grieve  over  the  non- 
existence  of  their  son,  she  was  at  first  puzzled. 
Then  her  conventional  mind  and  her  conventional 
training  came  to  her  rescue,  and  she  persuaded  her- 
self, quite  easily,  that  Alison's  nature  was  "re- 
served," that  the  poor,  cheated  mother  could  not 
bring  herself  to  speak  of  sorrows  so  intimate. 
Emily  had  even  respected  her  daughter-in-law  for 
this  imaginary  reticence.  She  had  died,  comforted 

286 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

in  the  idea  that  her  son  had  a  wife  whose  nature  was 
so  "deep."  "Deep"  and  "lasting"  were  words  she 
had  used  since  girlhood  synonymously,  and  without 
the  slightest  notion  of  their  meaning  or  actual 
efficacy  in  the  scheme  of  things.  But  Joan  was 
different.  Hers  was  the  weakness  of  extreme  intel- 
ligence. She  believed  in  the  maxims  of  her  youth, 
in  all  the  emotions  which  she  and  Emily,  as  girls, 
had  been  taught  to  consider  as  "deep  and  lasting." 
She  believed  in  sentiment,  in  "family  life,"  in  "faith- 
fulness" (quite  apart  from  whether  that  faithful- 
ness was  the  outcome  of  genuine  emotion  or  the  re- 
sult of  continuous  human  strain) — she  believed  in 
all  these  things,  but,  since  her  brain  would  insist 
upon  working  in  larger  circles,  she  could  not  com- 
pletely persuade  herself  that  there  might  not  be 
other  schemes  of  perfectly  legitimate  happiness; 
that  fashions  in  love — as  in  clothes — might  not  be 
capable  of  supersession.  With  her  right  hand  she 
clung  to  the  canons  she  knew ;  with  her  left  she  tried 
feebly  to  push  away  the  disturbing  possibilities  which 
her  tyrant  of  a  brain  was  for  ever  suggesting. 
Emily's  left  hand  had  always  been  a  faint,  admiring 
shadow  of  her  right,  and  so  Emily  had,  on  the 
whole,  been  a  happier  woman  than  Joan. 

When  Alison's  mother  came  to  say  goodbye, 
before  starting  for  Italy,  her  daughter  kissed  her 
heartily,  and  congratulated  her.  "It's  a  splendid 
thing  for  you,  Mother,"  she  said.  "You  always 
needed  colour  and  warmth — you're  out  of  place 
here."  (As  if  Joan  did  not  know  it!)  "In  Italy, 

287 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

even  the  houses  have  frescoes  painted  on  the  outside. 
You'll  adore  Italy  I" 

"Well,"  answered  Joan,  slowly,  in  the  curious 
meditative  tones  she  always  used,  "perhaps  I  shall." 

She  was  not,  really,  thinking  about  Italy  at  aR: 
she  was  only  wondering  in  her  acute,  vivid  way,  why 
it  was  that  a  grown-up  child  should  be  so  pleased  at 
the  removal  of  its  mother:  the  removal,  that  is  to 
say,  in  mere  mileage.  As  she  looked  at  Alison,  still 
telling  her  of  the  wonders  of  Italy,  Joan  felt,  sud- 
denly, and  with  a  definite  sense  of  surprise  even  in 
the  moment  that  it  was  better  that  the  baby  had 
never  lived.  As  Alison  smiled  into  her  mother's 
eyes,  without  the  slightest  sense  of  what  lay  behind 
the  surface  of  them,  Joan  actually  wondered 
whether  it  might — possibly — have  been  better  if  her 
own  daughter  had  never  lived.  She  returned  home 
to  her  packing,  with  a  sense  that  the  visit  had  been 
as  ridiculous  as  a  conventional  call.  She  might  just 
as  well  have  left  a  card  upon  Alison. 

Well,  perhaps  none  of  it  mattered.  Perhaps  the 
standards  of  her  own  youth  were  really  outworn. 
Perhaps  she  and  Peter  and  their  like  had  become 
tiresome  to  the  young.  And  even  so,  had  they  the 
right  to  complain?  Certainly  not.  Their  lives  were 
behind  them. 

In  due  course  Alison  herself  would  be  an  old 
woman.  She  too  would  become,  as  it  were,  one  of 
the  books  which  are  never  taken  down  from  the 
shelf:  works  which  made  a  sensation  in  their  day, 

288 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

but  which  became  tedious,  and  even  infantile,  to  a 
new  generation,  pregnant,  of  course,  with  greater 
possibilities  than  any  litter  to  which  the  world  had 
ever  given  birth  before. 

How  would  Alison  take  it,  when  the  dust  began 
to  settle  upon  her?  Joan  shook  her  head  over  her 
open  trunk,  and  told  herself  that  it  was  very 
wicked  of  her  to  want  to  smile.  Yet,  for  all  that, 
she  smiled. 

In  Italy  she  discovered  that  Alison  had  been  right. 
uYou  always  needed  colour  .  .  .  you're  out  of 
place  here !" 

It  was  a  distinct  effort  to  realise  that  Alison  was 
right.  Joan  had  to  arrive  at  it  by  a  process  of 
belittlement:  by  telling  herself  that,  after  all,  it  was 
unlikely  that  even  Alison  could  invariably  be  wrong. 

Italy  gave  her,  in  the  last  few  years  of  her  life, 
everything  which,  by  their  absence,  had  caused  the 
writing  of  her  "unmarketable"  poems  so  long  as 
her  soul  was  not  too  tired  to  protest  against  its 
boundaries.  Here,  among  a  strange  people,  among 
unaccustomed  scenes,  with  uninherited  laws  and  cus- 
toms, there  seemed  to  be  no  real  boundaries,  after 
all.  Peter  himself  became  the  only  definite  standard 
by  which  to  measure  her  life.  Inversely,  the  editor 
too  found  his  horizon  narrowing  gently  to  a  circle 
just  large  enough  to  contain  his  wife  and  himself. 

It  was  indeed  a  genuine  inspiration  which  had 
sent  Peter  and  his  wife  abroad,  in  their  old  age. 

If  they  had  any  sense  of  defeat,  it  was  not  in  their 

289 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

own  lives.  The  years  slipped  behind  them  and  they 
no  longer  bothered  whether  their  ideas  were  right 
or  wrong.  They  only  knew  that,  in  their  own  case, 
those  ideas  had  "worked"  satisfactorily.  They 
were  happy  and  they  were  not  afraid  of  death :  and, 
as  the  old  man  put  it  jocularly  to  the  old  lady,  sitting 
in  their  little  cliff-garden,  overlooking  the  Mediter- 
ranean, "You  can't  say  fairer  than  that." 

Alison's  letters  came  regularly,  documents  so 
matter-of-fact  that  they  almost  read  like  statistics. 

"Harold  bought  a  new  winter  overcoat  yesterday. 
Thirteen  guineas.  Apparently  it's  a  reasonable 
price  for  a  decent  coat.  But  Harold's  has  a  belt, 
and  only  one  button.  I'm  not  sure  I  care  for  it." 

That  kind  of  letter. 

One  day,  Joan,  reading  to  her  husband  the  latest 
news  from  their  daughter,  came  upon  this  passage: 

"Do  you  remember  Dr.  Weare?  He  used  to 
come  to  Whyticombe  when  we  were  kids." 

"Ah,"  interjected  the  old  man,  "that  shows  you 
how  difficult  it  is  to  understand  children!  Do  we 
remember  Owen  Weare !  Well,  well — what  about 
the  dear  old  chap?" 

Joan  paused  for  a  moment,  then  read  on: 

"He  died  suddenly  the  other  day,  from  heart- 
failure.  Apparently,  he  always  had  a  bad  heart." 

She  stopped  again,  as  if  that  last  sentence  meant 
more  than  it  said. 

"Poor  old  Owen!"  said  Peter.  "He  was  a  good 
sort — always." 

290 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Joan  answered  nothing.  She  was  thinking  of 
Loveday,  released  at  last,  years  and  years  too  late. 
Like  a  prisoner  serving  a  life-sentence,  whose  good 
conduct  has  saved  for  him  a  few  pitiful  months,  and 
who  shuffles  out  of  the  prison  gates  into  a  blinding, 
useless  freedom. 

And  yet,  thought  Joan,  perhaps  this  tragedy,  like 
so  many,  came  about  from  lack  of  courage. 

Loveday  should  have  left  him. 

"Poor  old  Owen!"  murmured  Peter,  half  asleep 
in  the  sun.  "Always  a  good  sort.  But  he  died 
quick,  it  seems  .  .  .  that's  something." 

He  slipped  further  down  into  his  chair  and  tilted 
his  hat  over  his  eyes. 

"Poor  Mrs.  Weare,"  he  said  sleepily.  "You 
ought  to  write  her  a  letter." 

"Yes,"  answered  Joan,  and  said  no  more.  In  a 
few  moments  she  noticed  that  Peter  was  asleep,  and 
she  slipped  indoors.  The  time  was  ripe  and  good — 
for  she  did  not  want  Peter  to  see  that  letter. 


291 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

The  Beach  Hotel  at  Whyticombe  was  under  new 
management,  when  Alison  and  Harold  visited  it 
again,  nearly  twenty  years  after  their  engagement. 
The  place  itself  had  not  changed  much :  a  new  villa 
here,  with  a  bright  clean  red  roof,  a  new  shop 
there — or  an  old  one  with  a  new  name  painted  over 
its  windows.  But  the  faces,  of  course,  were  strange. 
Not  that  Harold  and  Alison  experienced  any  feeling 
of  sadness,  as  their  parents  would  have  done,  over 
this  very  natural  phenomenon.  Their  lives,  at  the 
time  when  they  were  last  holiday-making  at  the  little 
town,  had  hardly  begun,  whereas  Emily  and  Joan, 
Charles  and  Peter  had  long  arrived  at  that  point 
where  all  one's  surroundings  appear  permanent. 
Harold  enquired  after  Ted  Willis,  and  learnt  that 
he  had  been  dead  twelve  years.  The  manner  of  his 
death  was  still  a  romance  to  folk  who  were  accus- 
tomed to  a  yearly  routine  of  splendid  normality. 

"Very  queer,  sir,"  a  young  fisherman  told  Harold. 
"God  took  him  at  his  work,  as  one  might  say. 
Thought  he'd  done  enough  lobstering  and  messing 
about,  maybe.  But  God  likes  work,  sir ;  He  let  him 
get  his  pots  in,  and  then  took  him." 

"Do  you  mean  he  died  on  his  boat?" 

The  young  man  nodded. 
292 


WHERE   YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Yes,  sir.  My  uncle  was  one  of  them  that  went 
out  and  found  him.  His  boat  lay  out  there." 

He  shot  a  brown  arm  out  towards  Sanscombe. 

"He  went  out  in  the  late  afternoon,  sir,  to  take  in 
his  pots,  and  the  next  morning  there  was  his  boat 
still  riding  off  the  rocks.  The  old  fellows  got  to- 
gether on  the  beach  an'  looked  at  her.  They  all 
knew  old  Willis  was  queer,  sir,  and  that's,  I  expect, 
why  they  didn't  do  anything  till  the  afternoon. 
Then  they  put  out  to  see  what  was  up.  He  was 
dead  an'  stiff,  stir,  when  they  reached  him.  Dead 
many  hours,  doctor  said.  But  he  was  a  rum  bird  in 
life,  sir,  and  he  was  a  rum  bird  dead,  too!" 

The  fisherman  paused,  unwilling  to  waste  the 
dramatic  crisis  of  his  story. 

"How  do  you  mean?"  asked  Harold. 

"He  was  dead,  but  standing,  sir!  Standing  up 
against  the  mast,  with  his  icy  old  arm  crooked 
around  it,  so  he  couldn't  fall  and,  eyes  open,  over 
the  channel.  He  weren't  staring,  like  the  dead, 
Uncle  told  us;  just  looking  out  like  anyone  else. 
Reckon  he  knew  what  was  coming,  sir,  and  those 
who  found  him  say  he  looked  as  if  he  knew  where 
he  was  going  to,  as  well.  But  there,  sir,  old  chaps 
like  Uncle,  as  you  know,  are  like  to  be  fanciful." 

He  drew  his  hand  across  his  mouth,  reflectively. 

"Still,    old    Willis    was    always    queer    .    .    . 
always." 

Harold  nodded. 

"But  he  was  a  good  sort.  Took  me  out  fishing 
when  I  was  a  boy,"  he  said. 

293 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Aye,  sir,"  nodded  the  other.  "No  one  could 
ever  say  that  Willis  didn't  know  all  there  is  about 
fishing." 

He  nodded  awkwardly  and  moved  down  the 
beach  towards  his  own  boat.  Harold  felt  em- 
barrassed for  a  moment,  wondering  whether  the 
man  had  expected  a  tip.  He  could  not  help  remem- 
bering the  ease  and  grace  with  which  Ted  Willis 
was  wont  to  sweep  off  his  hat  and  smile,  at  the  end 
of  such  an  interview.  And  this  was  his  epitaph! 
He  knew  "all  there  is  about  fishing" ! 

As  Harold  walked  back  to  the  hotel  he  experi- 
enced a  definite  feeling  of  having  lost  something. 
Not  the  mere  physical  presence  of  Ted  Willis,  for 
that  had  never  been  of  importance  to  him.  By  his 
very  age,  the  fisherman  had  never  been  anything  but 
a  memory  to  the  young  man.  Yet  it  seemed  now 
as  if  an  idea,  a  very  definite  and  desirable  idea,  had 
vanished.  The  sensation  was  mysterious,  and,  like 
his  father,  Harold  always  became  depressed  when 
he  was  puzzled. 

They  had  taken  a  private  sitting-room  at  the 
Beach  Hotel,  and,  on  the  very  first  night,  had  recog- 
nised it,  with  an  effort,  as  the  very  room  in  which 
the  party  had  taken  place  upon  the  day  of  their 
engagement.  An  old-fashioned  sofa  stood  in  the 
window — the  window  looking  out  over  the  sea — and 
Alison  had  already  complained  of  its  uncomfortable 
formation. 

When  Harold  came  in,  he  flung  himself  down 
upon  this  sofa  and  stared  out  of  the  window. 

294 


' 

WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Alison,  sitting  in  an  armchair,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  room,  looked  up  quickly,  diagnosed  the  usual 
affection  of  the  liver,  inseparable  from  the  first 
hours  of  sea-side  holiday,  and  returned  to  her  work. 

Harold  sat  still,  his  eyes  looking  over  the  channel, 
but  seeing  nothing.  Curious  imaginations,  quite 
foreign  to  his  own  nature,  seemed  suddenly  to  take 
hold  of  him.  His  mind  ran,  as  it  appeared,  uncon- 
trolled, over  his  own  career.  His  success  at  the 
bar — mediocre,  sufficient.  His  success  in  society — 
accepted  as  an  uninterestingly  respectable  individual. 
What  was  left?  The  greatest,  most  ambitious  field 
of  all.  His  success  in  his  own  home.  Still  that 
terrible  word  "mediocre"  insisted.  The  hiss  of 
Alison's  needle,  in  and  out  of  the  brim  of  a  hat 
which  she  was  re-decorating,  seemed  to  make  it  even 
more  redundant.  He  moved  uneasily  upon  the  sofa, 
with  an  ever-growing  and  ever-resisted  sensation 
that  something  outside  himself  was  assailing  his 
soul.  It  was  as  if  he  was  actually  losing  ground  in 
some  terrific  battle,  for  the  absurd  reason  that  he 
had  never  realised  that  it  was  a  battle  at  all. 

Alison's  needle  ticked  on  like  a  clock. 

"Damn,"  he  said,  without  knowing  that  he  had 
spoken. 

She  looked  up. 

"What's  the  matter,  Harold?" 

"Nothing,"  he  answered.  "Did  I  speak?" 
Then  he  realised  the  necessity  of  some  sort  of  ex- 
planation. 

"Do  you  remember  old  Willis?"  he  went  on. 

295 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Vaguely,"  answered  Alison.  "You  mean  the 
fisherman?" 

Harold  nodded.  It  was  so  like  her  to  remember 
what  he  did  rather  than  what  he  was. 

"I've  been  hearing  how  he  died,"  he  said,  as  if 
that  might  explain  the  sudden  unconscious  oath. 

"He  was  an  old  man,"  returned  Alison,  in  a  tone 
which  showed  that  she  had  little  interest  in  her  sub- 
ject. 

"Oh,  yes,"  answered  Harold;  "he  was  an  old 
man." 

He  himself  could  not  pretend  to  any  real  emotion 
over  the  death  of  Ted  Willis.  He  had  simply  used 
the  memory  of  the  man  as  an  explanation  of  his  own 
inexplicable  emotions. 

Alison's  needle  started  to  click  rhythmically, 
once  more.  The  light  just  beginning  to  fade,  the 
sea  turned  a  deeper  grey.  The  window  rattled,  a 
kind  of  irritable  mutter,  before  the  vanguard  of  a 
breeze.  The  man  on  the  sofa  moved  sharply,  un- 
naturally. Something  which  he  could  not  describe 
even  to  himself  was  attacking  him — as  if  a  horde 
of  monstrous  gnats  buzzed  about  his  brain.  He 
jumped  suddenly  to  his  feet :  so  suddenly  that  Alison 
dropped  her  work  into  her  lap  and  stared. 

"It's  odd,"  he  said.  "I've  a  feeling  that  some- 
thing once  happened  in  this  room — something 
rather  marvelous:  do  you  believe  in  suggestion?" 

Alison  picked  up  her  hat. 

"I  daresay,"  she  said,  "that  different  things  react 

296 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

on  different  minds.  No  doubt  one's  surroundings 
have  some  physical  effect  upon  one.  It's  a  question 
for  the  doctors.  If  you  mean  anything  else — well, 
no.  That  kind  of  nonsense  doesn't  lead  anywhere." 

He  felt  suddenly  furious  with  the  quiet  conceit 
which  was  carrying  Alison  so  serenely  through  life: 
which,  indeed,  had  carried  him,  up  to  this  point. 

"My  God,"  he  heard  himself  saying,  "don't  we 
believe  in  anything?" 

Alison  rose. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and,  turning,  stood 
looking  out  of  the  window  again.  He  knew  that  he 
could  not  explain. 

"The  wood,"  he  muttered.  "Oh,  we  were  fine  in 
the  wood !  We  were  going  to  defy  the  world  with 
our  brand-new  theories,  weren't  we?  We  were  so 
jolly  kind  to  go  to  church  and  have  a  wedding- 
breakfast  for  the  sake  of  our  relations  and  their 
silly  conventions!  We,  who  knew  so  much  better! 
Well,  the  wood  made  a  fool  of  me,  too !  I  thought 
it  was  all  real!" 

Alison's  cold  voice  cut  in. 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  think  I  deceived  you  that 
night?" 

"No;  I  don't  mean  that.  I  know  that  you  meant 
it — our  creed  of  commonsense  and  all  that.  We 
both  meant  it.  Only  .  .  ." 

"Only  what?" 

He  turned  round. 

297 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"Well,"  he  said  slowly,  "the  fact  remains  that 
we  didn't  defy  convention  in  the  wood,  after  all." 

She  stared  at  him. 

"I  would  have  given  myself  to  you,  then,"  she 
said. 

"Perhaps,  perhaps,"  he  answered,  and  shivered 
for  no  particular  reason.  "Only,"  he  added,  "it 
didn't  happen,  because " 

She  waited  deliberately  for  him. 

"Because  we  aren't  that  kind  of  people,"  he  went 
on  in  a  rush.  "Because  we  aren't  big  enough  or 
small  enough,  whichever  it  is,  to  be  happy  except 
according  to  the  rules.  And,  because  we  thought 
we  were  so  mighty  superior,  we  chucked  away  all  the 
things  that  make  it  possible  to  live  by  rules." 

"We  were  to  be  partners,"  said  Alison  slowly. 

"It  is  impossible !"  he  cried. 

"Do  you  mean  you  have  been  faking  it  all  these 
years?" 

"No.     Finding  it  out." 

"Finding  what  out?  That  you  don't  care  for 
me?" 

"That  to  be  partners,  there  must  be  something 
to  ...  to  cling  to."  The  man  felt  that  he  could 
never  tell  her  what  he  meant.  It  seemed  impossible 
to  put  it  into  words.  For  a  moment  he  wished  he 
had  said  nothing,  though  he  knew  that  the  impulse 
to  speak  had  come  from  outside,  had  been  stronger 
than  him. 


298 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"We  were  to  be  masters  of  our  lives,"  she  was 
saying.  "Why  should  we  accept  blindly  second-hand 
emotions?" 

"There  are  things  you  must  accept  blindly  .  .  . 
Life  itself  you  can't  choose.  Love  .  .  ." 

He  stopped  abruptly,  with  a  sense  that  it  was  use- 
less to  oppose  his  red-hot  mood  to  Alison's  cold 
reasonable  logic. 

"There's  just  one  thing,"  he  said.  "We  agreed — 
that,  if  ever  either  of  us  felt  that  the  partnership 
was  no  longer  real,  we  would  not  try  to  conceal  it. 
If  you  feel  you  no  longer  care  for  me,  Harold,  for 
heaven's  sake,  do  me  the  justice  of  telling  me." 

"If  I  didn't  care  for  you,  Alison,"  he  returned,  in 
a  low  voice,  "why  should  I  have  said  a  single  word 
of  all  this?" 

And  for  all  his  words,  he  did  not  know  why  he 
had  said  what  he  had.  She  kissed  him  on  the  fore- 
head. 

"I  must  change  for  dinner,"  she  said.  "Are  you 
going  to?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  answered  dully,  and  then,  when  she 
was  at  the  door,  "Alison,  do  you  never  remember 
being  afraid  of  the  dark?" 

"Never,"  she  returned.    "Don't  be  long,  dear." 

She  went  out,  and  the  door  closed  behind  her. 

As  he  sank  back  upon  the  ugly  sofa  in  the  window, 
the  closed  door  appeared  to  his  brain  as  a  caricature 
of  Alison  herself.  He  put  up  a  last  desperate  fight 
against  the  convictions  that  crowded  upon  him  like 

299 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

an  army  in  close  order.  He  told  himself  that  he 
was  tired,  morbid — ill.  .  .  . 

But  a  force  infinitely  stronger  than  his  own 
counter-attack  beat  him  back.  Wildly,  without 
reason,  he  felt  that,  if  only  he  could  get  out  of  that 
room,  he  would  be  free  of  its  compulsion.  He  stag- 
gered to  his  feet,  and  found  himself  upon  his  knees. 

It  was  a  real  prayer  he  uttered,  the  first  for  many 
years — perhaps  all  the  more  genuine  for  that. 

"Curse  cleverness,"  he  said,  "curse  wisdom — I 
want  to  be  happy,  I  want  Alison  to  be  happy,  I  want 
a  child  who  is  happy — I  want  to  be  the  chap  that 
makes  them  happy!" 

A  soft  voice  seemed  to  whisper  in  his  ear,  "Pooh  I 
The  emotions  of  the  stone-age  ...  of  the 
animals,  perhaps!" 

"Who  cares?" 

"Aren't  you  a  man?  With  a  Public  School  and 
an  Oxford  career  behind  you?" 

"Miles  behind  me.    I'm  grown  up." 

"Grown  up?  And  only  gone  back  to  a  sense  of 
possession  and  a  desire  to  protect  your  belongings?" 

"Who  cares?  I've  heard  all  that  before  .  .  . 
even  at  Oxford.  God !  How  many  names  has  Love 
been  called!" 

"Love?"  The  soft  voice  seemed  to  purr  deris- 
ively. "What  has  it  achieved?  To  what  ambition 
has  it  been  anything  but  a  handicap?" 

"To  all,  perhaps,  except  itself." 

"What!  Is  a  simple  home  an  ambition?  Re- 
member, it's  a  big  word." 

300 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Suddenly  Harold  heard  his  own  voice,  curiously 
loud,  as  if  answering  someone  whom  he  knew  to  be 
out  of  hearing. 

"I  know  it  is  a  big  word,  and  I  swear  it  is  the 
biggest  thing!" 

He  stood  up,  in  the  growing  darkness,  staring  into 
the  luminous  blue  of  the  window.  At  his  back  the 
shabby,  ugly  room  lay  in  deep,  kind  shadows. 

"Klondyke !  Stake  out  your  claim  quick  and  hang 
on  to  it!" 

Harold  started  at  the  reality  of  the  voice.  He 
turned  quickly  and  found  himself  with  his  hand  on 
the  door.  Then,  in  the  darkness,  he  heard  a  soft 
rustle,  like  the  swish  of  silk,  at  his  feet.  Instinc- 
tively, he  swung  open  the  door,  with  that  sense  of 
embarrassment  which  a  man  feels  when  he  has  been 
on  the  point  of  preceding  a  lady. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  involuntarily,  and  stood 
there,  holding  the  door  open. 

There  was  no  sound.  No  one  passed  out  into 
the  dimly-lighted  passage. 

But  someone  came  in. 

Standing  there,  semi-conscious,  by  reason  of  the 
intoxication  of  his  own  mental  revolution,  Harold 
was  not  aware  of  the  entrance  of  what,  to  him, 
appeared  as  the  third  person. 

He  came  to  earth,  as  it  were,  when  he  saw  that 
someone — someone  with  shaking  fingers — was  light- 
ing the  gas  at  the  side  of  the  mantelpiece.  The 
yellow  flame  leapt  up  with  an  explosive  little  hiss, 
and,  catching  the  draught  from  the  window,  threw 

301 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

pale  shadows  jumping  all  over  the  room,  like  an  old 
sick  clown  going  through  his  capers. 

Beneath  the  fluttering  jet  Harold  saw  a  short 
black  figure,  something  like  a  low  peg  on  which 
someone  had  hung  innumerable  shawls.  Even  when 
this  object  turned  round,  he  could  see  only  that  it 
possessed  a  face.  The  features  caught  no  illumina- 
tion from  the  capricious  light  above  them.  But  he 
felt,  suddenly,  that  the  thing  was  looking  at  him, 
and  he  realised  that  his  own  face  must  be  in  the  full 
light. 

"Dear !  dear  I"  A  quavering  voice,  curiously  low, 
came  to  him.  "It  is  Harold  I"  The  shapeless  black 
shadow  produced  a  cracked,  horrible  laugh. 

"And  why  no  light?"  it  went  on.  "Why  no 
light?  To  be  afraid  of  the  light!  Oh,  dear!  That's 
the  most  fearful  confession  of  all.  Even  I,  even  I 
.  .  .  was  only  afraid  of  the  dark!" 

He  saw  her  now  more  plainly,  an  old  woman,  with 
a  crumpled  yellow  face,  from  which,  like  two  jewels, 
bewildered  at  the  inadequacy  of  their  setting,  stared 
a  pair  of  flashing  aquamarines. 

Old  Mrs.  Weare! 

So  she  was  still  labelled  in  the  files  of  Harold's 
mind,  though  he  could  no  longer  call  himself  the 
"new"  generation. 

Mrs.  Weare. 

And,  he  remembered,  the  cheery  old  doctor's  wife 
had  been  said,  for  a  long  time,  to  have  become  a 
little  "queer."  Not  that  she  had  gone  "out  of  her 

302 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

mind" — that  misfortune  had  a  tinge  of  disgrace 
about  it  in  the  circles  in  which  Harold's  life  had  been 
thrown — and  one  was  expected  to  call  people  eccen- 
tric, under  their  rules,  though  the  utmost  limits, 
even  of  Bohemia,  had  long  since  been  overstepped. 
Besides,  what  excuse  had  Loveday  Weare  for  such 
a  regrettable  and  anti-social  fate  to  overtake  her? 
The  death  of  Owen  Weare,  that  incomparable  hus- 
band, might  have  caused  a  grief  so  deep  that  it 
amounted  to  mania ;  but  the  eccentricities  of  Loveday 
had  developed  months,  even  years  before  the  doctor 
had  settled  his  account. 

"Yes,"  he  heard  her  say,  "even  I  was  only  afraid 
of  the  dark.  In  the  dark,  you  see,  there  is  no  one 
at  all,  except  yourself  .  .  .  and  perhaps  another. 
That  is  terrifying,  quite  terrifying!" 

And  for  no  reason  at  all,  as  it  appeared  to  him, 
the  old  woman  laughed  again. 

Harold  shut  the  door  softly. 

"I  had  no  idea  you  were  at  Whyticombe,"  he 
said.  "I  came  tonight." 

With  an  instinct  of  kindness,  he  moved  across 
and,  taking  her  arm,  guided  her  to  one  of  the  un- 
compromising armchairs  that  flanked  the  fire,  as  if 
truculently  upholding  a  hard-dying  convention. 

"It  must  be  hard  for  you,"  he  said,  "to  come  here 
.  .  .  now." 

Her  eyes  blinked  at  him  from  the  chair,  and  he 
saw  her  thin  lips  twist  into  a  smile  which  was  like 
the  ghost  of  some  emotion  which  had  once  been  very 

303 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

much  alive.  Somehow  the  impression  it  gave  him 
was  an  impression  of  revenge. 

He  shivered  and,  for  want  of  a  better  gesture, 
anasmic  embers  of  the  fire. 

He  felt  suddenly  her  cold  hand  upon  his. 

"I've  booked  the  same  bedroom,"  she  was  saying. 
"I've  been  up  there.  Nothing  changed.  The  same 
bed — same  chair  by  the  side  of  the  bed!"  She 
chuckled  again. 

Harold  licked  his  dry  lips. 

"It's  silly  of  you,  Mrs.  Weare.  You'll  only  get 
more  unhappy  this  way." 

Again  the  enigmatical,  horrible  chuckle.  The 
cold,  claw-like  fingers  tapped  upon  his  hand. 

"Before  I  go  to  bed,"  she  went  on,  "I'm  going 
downstairs  into  the  hall.  Then  I'm  coming  up  the 
stairs  to  bed  .  .  .  all  by  myself !  all  by  myself !" 

He  caught  a  strange  note  of  triumph  in  her  voice. 
Certainly  poor  Mrs.  Weare  was  quite  mad. 

"And  then,"  she  said,  "I  shall  open  my  bedroom 
door  and  I  shall  undress — and  I  shall  lay  all  my 
clothes  on  that  chair  by  the  bed.  You've  no  idea 
what  that  will  mean  to  me!  There  was  a  reason 
before  why  I  couldn't,  you  see!  And  after  that  I 
shall  get  into  bed  and  turn  out  the  light  and  .  .  ." 
her  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper,  "I  shall  lie  right 
across  that  big  bed  from  corner  to  corner !  .  .  . 
right  across  from  corner  to  corner!" 

He  caught  a  light  of  pure  happiness  in  her  two 

304 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

great  aquamarine  eyes.  Apparently  she  saw  that  he 
was  bewildered — for  she  sat  back  suddenly  in  the 
chair  with  a  little  contented  sigh. 

"It  was  worth  while  coming,"  she  murmured, 
"just  for  that  journey  up  to  bed."  Then  she  paused, 
and  in  a  stronger  voice,  a  voice  which  appeared  to 
Harold  surprisingly  sane,  she  said: 

"But  that  is  not  the  only  thing  I  came  to  Whyti- 
combe  for,"  and  she  got  up  from  the  chair  and  stood 
beside  him. 

He  said  nothing.  Her  words  had  not  meant  any- 
thing to  him.  The  description  of  the  bed,  and  of 
the  chair  by  its  side,  were  meaningless,  merely  terri- 
fying in  their  suggestion  of  some  insane  purpose.  It 
was  as  if  an  idiot  talked  vaguely  of  things  which,  in 
the  mouth  of  a  sane  person,  would  hint  of  unmen- 
tionable horrors. 

But  he  felt  suddenly  that  he  could  no  longer  stand 
there  in  silence. 

"We  ...  we  must  dine  together,  of  course," 
he  said. 

"I  think  not,"  she  answered,  and  he  watched,  with 
a  wild  aversion,  her  yellow  cheeks  creasing  up  again 
into  a  dreadful  smile. 

"No,  no,"  she  went  on.  "You  and  Alison  must 
dine  alone.  As  far  as  Romance  is  concerned  I  am 
a  leper.  Whenever  I  meet  young  people  I  feel  I 
ought  to  be  ringing  a  leper's  bell!" 

She  seemed  to  notice  his  embarrassment  for  the 
first  time. 

305 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"No,  no,"  she  repeated;  "you  do  not  understand; 
not  yet  I" 

The  door  opened  behind  them,  and  Harold  heard 
Alison's  voice. 

"They  have  rung  the  gong  for  dinner;  you'll  not 
have  time  to  change  now."  She  broke  off  sharply, 
catching  sight  of  the  black  shadow  which  stood  be- 
side her  husband. 

The  old  woman  sighed  softly — almost  as  if  she 
was  taking  a  quick  breath  before  making  some  big 
physical  effort.  Then,  once  more,  she  gave  her 
curious  little  chuckle. 

"Oh,  yes,  Alison,"  she  said;  "there  is  plenty  of 
time  to  change — even  now." 

"It  is  Mrs.  Weare,"  Harold  put  in,  quickly.  "She 
has  just  come  down  from  town."  He  made  a  quick, 
silencing  gesture  to  Alison,  as  if  to  tell  her  that  this 
was  not  an  ordinary  visit,  that  it  was  no  place  for 
an  ordinary  greeting.  Alison,  surprised  by  his  warn- 
ing, bit  off  the  conventional  words  which  were  upon 
her  tongue. 

"I  want  you  to  sit  down  for  a  few  minutes — a  very 
few  minutes."  She  found  Loveday  Weare's  arm 
in  hers,  pushing  her  gently  towards  the  armchair. 
She  allowed  herself  to  be  guided  to  it,  without  a 
word.  The  old  lady  stood  between  her  and  Harold, 
and  seemed,  mysteriously,  to  dominate  them  both 
by  some  force  coming  from  her  shrunken,  shapeless 
figure. 

"In  a  way,"  she  said,  "Butler  was  right.     It  is  a 

306 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

crime  to  be  diseased.  It  is  wicked  not  to  be  happy 
— eh?"  The  monosyllabic  query  came  suddenly,  like 
an  unexpected  rifle-shot  from  a  quiet  wood.  But 
evidently  the  old  woman  expected  no  answer,  for  she 
went  on  almost  without  a  pause. 

"You  two  have  been  to  visit  me  sometimes.  Twice 
a  year,  wasn't  it?  Yes,  I  think  so.  Just  before 
Christmas  and  somewhere  about  June,  eh?  It 
wasn't  kindness — it  was  because  you  felt  it  was 
your  duty,  and  you  would  have  felt  uncomfortable 
if  you  had  left  it  undone.  Your  duty,  because  I 
was  alone !"  She  chuckled  again,  a  real,  unmistak- 
ably merry  little  laugh.  "Ah,"  she  said,  "because  I 
was  alone — so  pitiably  alone!  eh?  You're  puzzled, 
but  you'll  soon  know  what  it  is  I  find  so  funny  about 
that.  Yet  I  liked  to  see  you,  because  I  studied  you. 
Yes,  I  used  to  dissect  you  both  when  you  came  and 
sat  in  my  little  drawing-room  and  wondered  how 
long  it  would  be  before  you  could  decently  go." 

"That  is  quite  true,"  said  Alison  suddenly,  and 
the  old  lady  nodded  smilingly. 

"Of  course,  dear,  of  course.  And  you  hated  my 
stuffy  old-fashioned  drawing-room — you  even  hated 
looking  at  the  gilt  clock  under  the  glass  case.  I 
know!" 

She  leant  forward  over  Alison,  intently. 

"So  strong  you  are !"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "So 
honest  with  yourself,  eh?  I  was  a  strong  nature, 
too.  If  I  had  been  born  when  you  were  born,  and 
encountered  what  I  did  encounter,  my  strength  might 

307 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

Have  led  me — ah,  where?  But  it's  not  your  problem 
• — it's  not  your  problem,  my  dear;  that's  why  it  is 
so  wicked  to  be  unhappy." 

"We  are  not  unhappy,  Mrs.  Weare." 

Loveday  nodded  at  her  comprehendingly. 

"Yes.  Perhaps  you  are  right.  There  has  never 
been  anything  definite  about  you  at  all.  Maybe  you 
are  not  even  capable  of  being  unhappy.  Poor  girl ! 
Poor  man!" 

"Mrs.  Weare !"  Harold  broke  in  sharply,  indig- 
nantly, but  the  old  lady  stopped  him  with  a  gesture. 

"I  know,"  she  said.  "I  know  I  It  is  impertinent, 
is  it  not?  I  know  that  I  must  explain  why  I  am 
here,  why  I  talk  like  this  to  you,  why  I  am  what  I 
am.  But  when  I  tell  you,  I  want  you  to  remember 
that  I  was  strong  too — as  strong  as  Alison  herself." 

"I  believe  in  strength,"  said  Alison.  "It  is  the 
thing  that  matters  most  of  all." 

"You  fool!"  snapped  the  old  woman  suddenly. 
"YouVe  never  had  to  use  what  you  call  your 
strength.  That's  why  it  has  turned  into  your  weak- 
ness— your  terrible  weakness!  Listen  to  me!" 

She  told  them  quickly,  bitingly,  the  story  she  had 
once  told  to  Alison's  mother ;  only  she  went  further 
back  and  told  them  of  her  girlhood,  a  rebellious 
girlhood,  full  of  revolt  against  all  the  conventions 
of  her  time,  all  the  sentiments  of  her  surroundings. 

"I  tell  you,"  she  cried  at  last,  "that  I  too  was 
strong.  But  I  made  a  great  discovery.  I  found 
that  there  were  things  which  strength  could  not 

308 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

touch.  Love  laughs  at  strength;  happiness,  real 
happiness,  is  practically  made  up  of  all  the  things 
we  call  weakness.  I  can  thank  God  now  that  Owen 
was  never  happy.  I  thought  once  that  he  was :  that 
his  cruelty  was  a  great  joy  to  him.  But  it  wasn't.  I 
can  see  that  now.  Because  he  had  no  weakness — no 
moments  of  tenderness — nothing  to  throw  it  into 
relief. 

"Strength  1"  She  looked  suddenly  full  into  Ali- 
son's eyes.  "Yes.  You  may  have  strength  enough 
to  kill  your  own  human  capacity  for  feeling,  for 
tears,  for  kisses,  for  all  the  wonderful  stupidities 
which  you've  inherited  by  your  womanhood — but 
what  then?  What  then?"  Her  voice  dropped  to  a 
whisper. 

"Strength  kills  everything,  in  the  end — every- 
thing, even  Owen's  happiness,  I  thank  the  just  God: 
yes,  strength,  alone,  is  a  killer." 

Before  they  knew  it  she  was  at  the  door — it  was 
closing  behind  her.  Alison  was  silent,  Harold  did 
not  move.  How  many  seconds  they  remained  there 
in  the  flickering  gaslight  they  did  not  know,  but, 
suddenly,  they  heard  a  faltering  step  coming  up  the 
stairs  from  the  hall. 

"My  God!"  whispered  Harold,  "she's  going 
though  her  programme.  What  she  came  to  do! 
Getting  the  thrill  of  being  alone :  trying  to  start  life 
all  over  again!" 

The  steps  passed  the  door  of  the  sitting-room. 
Alison's  voice  broke  in,  uncertainly: 

309 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

"That  woman  is  indomitable,"she  said,  "indom- 
itable;" and  then,  as  if  the  picture  suddenly  sprang 
to  life  in  front  of  her  eyes,  "My  God !  that  round- 
faced,  red-cheeked  old  man!  My  God!" 

She  turned  away  her  head  and  Harold  heard  her 
whispering  to  herself.  He  caught  a  few  words. 

".  .  .  and  I  thought  /  was  strong,"  she  was  say- 
ing. "All  those  years — all  those  years!  And  she 
is  starting  over  again,  now !" 

She  rose  slowly,  unsteadily. 

"I  think,"  said  Harold,  "I  had  better  go  upstairs 
and  dress." 

"I  will  come  up,  too,"  she  answered. 

The  dim-lit  passage  leading  to  their  bedroom  was 
very  silent.  Under  a  door  on  their  right  a  lamp 
threw  a  thin  yellow  line  along  the  further  wall. 
Harold  clutched  Alison's  arm. 

"That's  her  room  . .  .  the  one  she  shared  with — 
with  him!" 

The  girl  took  a  step  forward,  then  stopped  sud- 
denly. 

"Harold,"  she  said,  "there  .  .  .  there's  no  sound." 

The  man  felt  a  perfectly  unreasonable  panic  seize 
him,  as  if  a  pair  of  cold  arms  had  been  thrown  sud- 
denly about  his  knees. 

"Knock,"  she  whispered. 

He  raised  his  voice  in  the  exaggeration  of  terror. 

"But  why? — why?"  he  cried. 

"Knock!"  she  whispered  again. 

310 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

He  seized  her  arm. 

"What  is  it,  Alison?    Of  what  are  you  afraid?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "There  is  something 
stirring  in  me  which  I  don't  understand.  That 
round  red-faced  man  I  Years  and  years — and  she 
was  strong,  too!" 

"Was?"  Harold's  voice  shook. 

"Is  that  why  you  want  me  to  knock?"  he  whis- 
pered. 

She  said  nothing,  and  he  rapped  with  his  knuckles 
upon  the  door.  There  was  no  sound.  He  knocked 
again,  breathing  fast.  Then  he  turned  the  handle 
and  pushed  open  the  door. 

Loveday  Weare  lay,  fully  dressed,  stretched 
across  the  big  bed  from  corner  to  corner,  her  arms 
flung  out,  in  the  shape  of  a  cross.  Her  eyes  were 
open,  staring  at  the  ceiling,  but  the  fire  of  the  two 
aquamarines  had  left  them.  Her  pale  thin  lips  still 
smiled  triumphantly  at  the  vision  of  the  last  effort 
her  imagination  would  ever  make. 

"Oh,  God  I"  murmured  Harold,  kneeling  by  the 
bedside.  He  heard  his  wife's  voice,  coming  from 
the  other  side  of  the  room. 

"I  understand,"  Alison  was  saying.  "She  must 
have  suffered  here  more  than  anywhere — when 
everyone  else  was  holiday-making.  She  came  to 
triumph  over  those  sufferings;  to  start  life  over 
again,  from  the  worst  starting-point  of  all! 
Strong?  It  must  have  needed  some  strength  to 

3" 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

come  and  take  it  all  up  again  from  just  this  point!" 

She  took  the  thin  withered  hand  and  held  it  in  her 
own. 

Harold  looked  up  wildly. 

"But,"  he  cried,  "she  was  all  right  downstairs — 
she  was  all  right.  What  has  killed  her?" 

"Her  own  strength  has  killed  her,"  answered 
Alison  slowly.  "She  thought  she  could  face  this 
room.  She  believed  in  her  own  strength  though  she 
knew  that  strength  alone  .  .  .  was  a  killer. 
That  was  what  she  said,  to  us." 

Harold  nodded. 

"She  was  determined  to  go  through  with  it,"  he 
said. 

"Yes,"  answered  Alison,  "and  then  when  she 
got  here,  she  broke  her  heart  .  .  .  that's  all." 

"Broke  her  heart?" 

"Yes.  Either  because  of  a  great,  tremendous  joy, 
or  because  of  a  terrible  fear!" 

She  looked  about  the  room  with  a  shudder. 

"We  shall  never  know  which,"  she  added  simply. 

For  some  seconds  they  stood  looking  at  one 
another  across  the  figure  lying  so  unnaturally  across 
the  bed.  It  flashed  through  Harold's  mind  that  no 
one,  besides  themselves,  would  ever  know  the  awful 
symbolism  of  that  attitude.  Suddenly,  he  saw 
Alison  sink  down  beside  the  bed,  with  a  queer, 
strangled  moan. 

"Harold,"  she  said,  "I'm  frightened !  I'm  fright- 
ened!" 

312 


WHERE  YOUR  TREASURE  IS 

In  a  moment  he  was  by  her  side,  his  arm  round 
her. 

"It's  not — not  her  being  dead.  I'm  frightened 
because — because  I've  been  so  proud  ...  so 
proud!  .  .  .  and  I've  never  fought  anything  in 
my  life!  I'm  frightened  in  case  the  things  .  .  . 
all  the  things  she  spoke  of  may  not  be  left  for  me ! 
I'm  frightened  because  I'm  small — because  I  don't 
feel  strong  any  more !  Oh,  Harold,  I'm  frightened, 
I'm  frightened!" 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  on  the  floor,  stroking  her 
head.  Her  fingers  clutched  at  his  like  a  baby's,  in- 
stinctively expecting  protection.  Harold  smiled, 
suddenly,  happily.  He  drew  her  closer  to  him,  for- 
getting, in  the  new  Alison,  what  else  kept  them  com- 
pany in  the  room. 

On  the  bed,  the  dead  woman  still  stared  at  the 
ceiling,  with  her  ironically  triumphant  smile. 


A     000  041  847     5 


